Hetailamon Digitaila
by azgbchdfjlvhmnsshwawprytthking
Summary: 25 And there are also many other things which Jesus did, the which, if they should be written everyone, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that should be written. Amen.
1. Chapter 1

America: Dude, I think the World Conference can convene. Solving all of today's problems by talking excessively! No matter how hard it seems, we can fix anything with enough meetings and photo ops. Feel free to speak honestly while protecting your chances for re-election. I'll go first! About that whole using global warming to enslave humanity thing, I think we'll be okay if we genetically engineer a huge hero and have him protect the Earth - I give you the super hero, 'Globoman'!

Japan: I agree with America.

Switzerland: Man up or I'll beat you with my peace prize!

England: There's no way some hero will help global warming or humanity's enslavement.

France: If Britain and America don't agree, how can I be superior by dissing them both?

England: AGINCOURT!

America: You Frenchies just love to hate America. Why not go back to making us hot green chick statues like you used to?

England: [overlapping with America] The only things that come from France are horrid wine and body odor.

China: Western nations are so immature. I doubt they ever grow up. Maybe I can try appealing to the only organ of theirs' that seems to work. Would you guys like to sample some Chinese tasty treats?

France and Britain: We'd just get hungry again!

Spain: Hey, why don't you say something Russia? They'll stop fighting if you go over and step in.

Russia: What? Why me? No thanks. I want to see Lithuania get in big trouble and come crawling back for help. Then Latvia will be right behind.

Estonia: You're so tough, next you'll try to pick a fight with Haiti.

Russia: Do you have a miniature detachable head?

Poland: If you get any closer to Lithuania I'll make your capital Warsaw!

China: Please everyone, calm down!

Germany: Everyone shut up!

England and France: Germany?!

Germany:We've called this conference to solve the world's problems, not to fight about the problems of our past. And since I'm the only country who seems to know how to run a meeting, we'll follow my rules from here on out. Eight minutes each for speeches, no chit chat about side deals, and absolutely no going over the time limit. Now if you want to go, make sure you're prepared and raise your hand, but do so in a way that does not mock any salute of my country's past. [Italy's hand goes up] Germany recognizes his friend Italy!

Italy: ... PASTA-!

*queue music*

Italy [singing a song about Germany] Germany! Germany! Germany is a really, really nice place. Even though I'm your prisoner you give me food, and it doesn't suck like English food. Sausages with cheeses always taste so good. It'd be heaven for a dog. Yeah that's Germany. Tell me, how is it you Germans are so robust. You're crushing me with your intimidation. My fragility causes me to openly weep out of fear. Your women terrify me. Is it the normal to drink a barrel of beer and then bust it on somebody's head? Please don't come to my place in large mobs; German tourists are scary. Even the girls that are from Germany are more rugged than I am. Yahoo!~

Italy [pops up as Germany is busy making cuckoo clocks to settle a debt towards France] Germany! Help me find a job. My family has become extremely poor. [is promptly kicked out]

Germany Don't come bothering me about a job! I can't do anything except work all day to pay back France!

Italy: Germany, Germany, a stranger said he would take me to a tasty dinner so I went to go get the pasta, but it turned out he only had hamburgers the whole time!

America: Yo Britain, I totally just caught Italy.

Italy: Please, but, but, oh.

England: Nicely Done. Let's hit him violently and get what we can out of him.

Italy: No need, I'll tell you everything I know.

America: This dude is lame. Maybe we should make him work

Italy: [Crash] My bad, oopsy.

America: Okay, so what now.

England: I wrote a letter to Germany. This is what he said 'Please prepare him good food, a cute girl and a foot/soccer ball. Also, he will die if he accidentally learns French, so be careful'

Italy: They said they were sending me back because I was too much work for them!

Germany: Welcome back, Italy.

Ring, Ring

Italy: Germany, Germany, there was a pretty girl so I hit on her, but it tuned out the pretty girl was France in disguise!

France: Ohonhonhon~, guess who just captured us a little Italy.

America: What?!

England: What?!

America: He's such a pain, let's put put him in jail or something.

Italy: Woof Woof!

England: Alright, I'll feed him.

Italy: Woof Woof!

Italy: AHHHH! THIS FOOD TASTES TERRIBLE! I'VE NEVER EATEN SOMETHING SO INCREDIBLY BLAND AND DISGUSTING!

England: It's terrible...? You think my is food bland...?

Italy: AHHH! OH THE WORST! EVEN GERMANY'S MUSHY POTATOES TASTE BETTER THEN THIS SOGGY MESS OF GOO!

America: You're not helping.

Germany: Welcome back, again.

Italy: Germany, Germany, I'm in North Africa right now and I can't tie my shoe laces. And what's even worse, Britain is here!

Germany: Ugh. *High blood pressure*

England: Come see, I've captured Germany by using Italy as a decoy

Germany: Damn, I should have know it was a trap.

America: Rock out, Britain!

France: Oui! Now you will tell us everything you know, or else.

Germany: Before I tell you, there is something I want to say. It goes a little something like this, LICK MEIN BALLS!

Italy: Ahh! Why are you pointing a gun at me? I already told you I would tell you everything I know which is pretty much everything I know! Please don't kill me, please!

Germany: Do your worse, compared to my everyday life your kind of torture would be like bites from a mosquito.

Italy: Germany's kind of a sadist, actually he's a dead super kind of sadist with a lot of hardcore books and DVD's you can't guess what I have seen living with him! There was this one video I saw that had dogs in it! He really likes tying people up too and I'm sure you know what means! Up until recently his goverment endorsed beastiality with all it's soldiers!

Germany: Breathing heavily ... I hate you.

Female voice over: Although Italy is small, he's kind of a pig. So the meals he's getting just aren't enough.

Italy (looks in box of food scraps) Uhhhh, Pasta, you hiding here?

Holy Rome Empire: (walking by with plate of food) Huh?

Italy: (pouts cutely) Hmmm, I can't eat this.

Holy Rome Empire: Hmm

Italy: I'm so hungry. Hold on, is that food? Is it there for me? ahah~! Thank you, who ever you are! nom nom nom This sucks.

Holy Rome Empire: ah!

Austria: What do I do with you? You steal food whenever I turn my back.

Italy:Sorry.

Austria: You think about what you did, you got it?

Italy:Sì.

Italy: I'm starving in here! AHHH!

Ring. Ring

Japan: Hai. Japan.

Italy: Japan, Japan, Help me. Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me!

Japan: We shall see.

France: Sir Britain... I have something important to say to you. ...I would like... for you to marry me.

England: T-That's very funny, France. I don't believe it's April Fool's day yet. ... What's the matter old chap? Can't even afford to buy a calendar anymore? *nervous laugh*

France: You are wrong, mon ami, and this is not so funny.

England: Right, what the hell is wrong with you?!

France: [pushes a piece of paper across the table to England] Here, take this.

England: THAT'S A MARRIAGE REGISTRATION FORM, YOU IDIOT!

France: [grabs England's hand] No it's not. Can't you see it is a calendar?

England: ...

France: IT'S FOR YOU! IT IS A CALENDAR! [grabs England's hand while holding a pen] You shall sign it!

England: I will do no such thing!

France: I said sign it!

England: No! [frees himself from France's grasp; scribbles all over the form] Here's what I think of your damn form! That's what happens when you try to force someone to marry you! [laughs]

France: You fool! Damnit! Don't you even care if I die?! Come on, help me! Please, I can become Britain's quaint little French village if you want me to.

England: No! Why on Earth would I want to marry you? First off, you need to learn to deal with and accept your failures.

France: [hooks his arms up under England's arms; he gets a creepy face and starts laughing a French laugh]

England: [being dragged backwards by France] Release your grip! Turn me loose! Are you listening? I said let go this minute, France, this is rather undignified!

[English version]

Russia: Oh privyet. I'm Russia. I'd like to be introducing my big and little sister now. First, please say hello to my big sister Ukraine. She's nice but not much to look at. This is my little sister, Belarus, she's pretty, not nice. The important thing is that they're both very weird... [saddens] So weird...

Russia: This is Ukraine, when I say big sister I mean big sister. Apparently her breasts are so giant they make her back hurt. Also she's poor, so those are real.

Russia: This is Ukraine. She's my big sister. With those collosal knockers of hers, she ends up being a target a lot. She's goofy which is fun. But she's also a crybaby which is weak.

Russia: This is Belarus, my little sister. She's very pretty isn't she? She says she loves me but sometimes I'm not so sure.

Russia: This is Belarus. She's my little sister. She has got a lot of inner strength and is very tenacious. But... not in a good way.

[Russia and China are in a plane above the Russian border]

Russia: Ok... So all I have to do is jump out of this plane and attack them, right?

China: That's right. Put on your parachute now.

Russia: Don't be silly! There's plenty of snow on the ground. It'll break my fall because it's soft.

China: What? I don't think that's right!

Russia: I am Russian! I know everything about snow. Well, see you around! [jumps out of the plane] Vodkaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

[Title sequence; France is reading a newspaper at England's house]

France: Hey, see this? It says here Russia broke his back jumping from a plane without a parachute.

England: Hm... Oh yeah? HEY! Why don't you go surrender to the maid or invent some new cheese?! Why are you here?!

France: Because. I like to mess with your needlework.

[cut to Russia's house]

Russia: Here I am, yay!

Lithuania: Welcome home Mr. Russia! I heard that you had very important meeting today. You must be tired now. Everyone one was there today, right? Did America say anything stupid?

Estonia: Hey, word of advice, friend. Never mention America to Russia, it makes him mad! Ah ha ha! We've prepared cold cabbage stew soup, with a nice vodka dipping sauce! He he!

Latvia: I'm glad you're home! I hope that everyone treated you well! We were taking bets on whether or not you'd be called a drunk or if they'd bring up Lake Placid on a Miracle on Ice!

Lithuania and Estonia: That hasn't happened yet!

Estonia: Well, I'm going to leave the room! [exits]

Lithuania: [thinks] Curse Estonia's brilliance, it's allowed him to slip away again!

[Russia is at the coat rack; Latvia is behind him]

Russia: Hey, do you know where the coat I left hanging here went to?

Latvia: I moved it, sir. I knew we couldn't leave such a valued museum piece hanging around. The pure absurdity of that stupid coat would be studied for insight into your history. From the early days of overbearing Czars and opulence. Your currents in like minimalism, fraternity and sheer force of power.

Russia: Bad choice. I like to wear that absurd coat almost every day of the week.

Latvia: WHAT?! I'm sorry, I didn't know you still wore it!

Lithuania: [to Latvia; fearfully] Oh... Shut up!

Latvia: What I really meant, Mr. Russia, is that I think it's a great sacrifice for you to share your history. These days too many kids know nothing of the old ways your coat represents. And, see, clothes are for insight into the past.

Russia: I just bought that coat last week. [puts hand on Latvia's head and applies a bit of pressure] I was wondering what makes you such a itty-bitty guy, Mr. Latvia.

Latvia: Well, it could be because of you. I mean because of your hand. Every time you see me you crush my cervical vertebrae a bunch. Perhaps if you weren't so affectionate, the blood could continue to flow to my brain when you're around.

Russia: [looks at Latvia with a close-eyed smile]

Latvia: [looks back at Russia with a fearful expression, wondering what Russia is thinking]

[cut to the kitchen; kettle steams]

Russia: [holds Latvia by the head and foot] Streeetch! [laughs] Streeetch! [laughs again]

Estonia: [smiling for once] Wow. Would you look at the time?

[cut to different room; The Baltics are chatting]

Lithuania: Man, what's up with the constant diary of the mouth, Latvia? You want to go to the guilloche?

Latvia: I can't take all this pressure! Why don't we switch sides and go live with Germany?

Lithuania: What?! Have you gone crazy?! Do you think Auschwitz is better than Siberia?

Estonia: I think I'm gonna have to go in alone for a while and see if that's any better.

Latvia: NO! I'm scared of him and I don't want to be alone! It feels so safe in his hairy arms!

Estonia: You should really try keeping your mouth more closed.

Lithuania: Let's ignore out pain. And food is the surest path to blissful procrastination. I'm sinking about making Cepelinai.

Latvia: But I want some Putra.

Estonia: I'll just have a snack, maybe some Piirakka.

[each of the three is shown smiling; cut to the dining room; The Baltics are eating]

Lithuania: We're really very different, aren't we?

Latvia: It's not just our food, it's like we're different races.

Estonia: It gets a little old being lumped together as the Baltic states.

[cut to the island; England is seen in front of a large, wooden crate]

England: [pulls a small pint of ice cream out of the crate; holds a partially eaten banana in the other hand] Hey, America! There's some pints of ice cream in this care package. I won't touch the stuff but I thought you might like it.

America: [looks behind him; turns completely around suddenly] Whoa, ice cream?! Dude I'm totally coming over there to hug you! *slips on a banana peel* Ice creeeeeeeam! [turns chibi and lands right in front of England with bloody face] Oof!

[cut to the hospital; America is in a bed with a broken foot and bandages on his head]

America: [has one of the pints of ice cream now; moves a spoonful to his mouth] Om!

[Marukaite Chikyuu plays]

Lithuania: I'm Lithuania.

Estonia: I'm Estonia.

Latvia: I'm Latvia.

Lithuania: I'm Lithuania.

Estonia: I'm Estonia.

Latvia: I'm Latvia.

Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia: [in unison] Together, we're the nervous trembling trio.

Spain: Listen up, in spanish, Kiss me is Dame un beso.

[Chibi Romano (nicknamed "Chibimano") ignores him and eats pizza]

Spain: Romano! So, how are those lessons coming along?

Chibimano: Spanish is stupid and hard to learn because the words are all wrong

Joanna of Castile: So Spain, how is your education of Italy coming along?

Spain: *sweatdrop* Ehehe, kinda bad actually.

Chibimano: *flirty* I know this! Besame mala chica!

Spain: Her highness is not a bad girl you twit!

Iceland: Oh skīt. What the cripes? I hardly get any tourists any more. I don't care what it takes, I gotta get popular again...Hi. Nice to meet you, I'm Iceland, a new character.

America: Dudes, this is an emergency! As the paper in front of you with those crazy drawings that are supposedly words says, a majority of humanity has been turned into a noppera ghosty blobs by the freaky beam of light that shoots out of other noppera-bo-ba or baaa I don't really know how to say it. Tony, my righteous alien friend told me they're pictonians from the planet Picto. For reals dudes, Picto's way in like, way far outer space.

England: YOUR BRAIN'S IN WAY FAR OUTER SPACE!

America: Dude, they're born looking like noppera and they want everybody else looking just like what they're doing, HELLO! Listen up! we can't just let these noppera dudes make earth all freaking boringly white, right? This is wack! We gotta stop these dudes ! Who's with me?... Also, what's a noppera?

Japan: Oh yes, I know what they are. It is a Japanese monster without a nose, eyes, or a mouth. It's proper name is nopperabo, okay?

England: Wait a tick, are you trying to say this is all your fault Japan?

Japan: No! I was simply explaining what noppera means! No more, no less.

China: Why do I have to be turned into noppera because of stupid Japan and scary story...

Japan: It's not my fault!

America: Focus countries ! Japan may have screwed things up, but we still have time to fix it ! Now, your ideas will all suck so listen to me. We'll combine all our military strength! I'll be in command so you can all wear the colors of my flag! All heroes wear red, white, and blue!

Italy: I think we should gather under the white flag!

England: Why in God's name would we put you in charge?

America: Duh, I be the hero, everybody knows that!

England: I beg to differ...

France: Everybody knows I've got the biggest-

England: No one asked you, cheesy monkey!

France: Shut up, black sheep of Europe!

England: I told you not to call me that!

China: Ugh. They never stop talking...

Italy: White flags! Come on, I made a whole lot of them! See! We can each wave our very own!

America: Japan, you think I'm right, right?

Japan: Uh, well, this is why I sense the mood and refrain from speaking.

America: Russia! What are you gonna do, dude?

Russia: I'm going to do fighting!

America: Rock out my dog, I've got the perfect job for you to have then! Back-up sidekick!

Russia: What?!

America: Yeah, every super-hero needs a sidekick, I should know that, I'm the hero! They even make big-budget Hollywood crazy good movies about it!

England: We also have top-notch productions in the UK!

France: Um, time-traveling phone booths can only go so far.

England: Shut it, Pépé le Pew, just because you invented movie-making doesn't mean you're any good at it! All your films are good for are putting me to sleep!

China: Just have you know, my movies have been very popular lately.

America: Dude, you can't compete with Michael Bay sequels.

China: That attitude is why I restrict your films!

Japan: Mine are more quietly artistic with cultural story-telling.

Italy: My movies are the most fun ones if you want to ask me!

Germany: Grr... rgghh... rggghhhh... THAT IS ENOOOOOUUUUUUGH! WHILE YOU SIT HERE AND ARGUE ABOUT NOTHING, MORE OF MANKIND ARE TURNING INTO THOSE NOPPERA OR PICTONIANS OR WHATEVER THEY'RE CALLED! NOW LISTEN. IF WE HAVE BEEN TURNED INTO THOSE THINGS, WE'LL LOSE OUR FACES SO WE WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO RECOGNIZE ANY OF US FROM THE OTHER. THINK ABOUT IT YOU DUMMKOPFSSSSSS!

America: Ha ha ha. No need to argue, 'cause I'm right!

Russia: I know my ideas are best because otherwise I kill them.

China: I'm only allowed to hear my thoughts and those are the ones I like.

Germany: Alright then. I'm done here. I don't know why I even thought that we could have a simple discussion. That's not how we work, is it? What a waste. This entire meeting has been pointless. I will do what I have to do and you do what you have to.

(Germany leaves the room; soon followed by everyone else)

Russia: That's exactly what I was going to say.

China: There's too much fighting together to figure out if we should even fight together anyway.

France: I am far too gorgeous to have been in a stuffy room for so long.

England: I am far too gorgeous to- Shut up France!

America: Ha ha ha ha! I was just trying to help! I don't need you guys, I'm the hero!

Japan: Ah. My belly. It hurts.

Italy: Uhuh! Hey, wait up you guys! Come on, don't leave me here by myself!

[Camera shoots to Canada, who is sitting alone.]

Canada: I'm still here. And I hate to complain, but no one even bothered to ask my opinion.

Kumajiro: Who are you?

Canada: I'm Canada.

Romano: WAAAH! WHAT THE CRAPOLA HAPPENED HERE!?

China: I'm hit! Oh noo!

America: China!

England: America!

Italy: Look! I drew a face!

(introducing Joe) "Oh, and the this is Joe. Don't scare him. He'd probably wet his pants"

"Hey, don't worry. We'll find him."

"Get 'em, Greymon!"

"A man must first face himself before he faces his enemies."

"Never trust anything without feet!"

"Who are you calling a jerk, jerk?"

"Sure, let's go for a hike. Then after that we'll hike. And then we can hike some more."

"Matt must be around here somewhere. Matt!"

"Or, we could stand here frozen until the monster gets us!"

"I have a foolproof plan: first we'll eat something, then after that... I'm open to suggestions!"

(sarcastically) "I'm glad we never hear you complaining..."

"Matt! Can you hear me, Matt?"

"Matt, I'm here!"

[holding TK] "That could have been a snake, or worse,"

"Matt! Are you out there?"

"When we get back, this is gonna make one great story. Yup... but... of course, not a single soul will ever believe me."

[talking about Frigimon] "Yup, this is him. He happened to see you fall on this island and he got us here in no time,"

"When we had to survive on our own, we grew up very fast... except for Joe, he just threw up very fast..."

"But my dad likes his mess where it is..."

"Matt!"

"You can do it, and even if you can't, we won't think any less of you, man!"

[looking at Agumon in his poor disguise] "Yeah. That's real inconspicuous."

"I thought we'd never find you guys! It is sure lucky we met up with Frigimon."

[About Keramon] "Maybe we should tell someone important like the principal or Bill Gates or something..."

"That is the last time I eat camp food!"

"Matt! Gabumon!"

"Oh, yeah? Try it, you tincan!"

"Well, come on!"

Taichi "Tai" Kamiya/Yagami

(introducing Joe) "Oh, and the this is Joe. Don't scare him. He'd probably wet his pants"

"Hey, don't worry. We'll find him."

"Get 'em, Greymon!"

"A man must first face himself before he faces his enemies."

"Never trust anything without feet!"

"Who are you calling a jerk, jerk?"

"Sure, let's go for a hike. Then after that we'll hike. And then we can hike some more."

"Matt must be around here somewhere. Matt!"

"Or, we could stand here frozen until the monster gets us!"

"I have a foolproof plan: first we'll eat something, then after that... I'm open to suggestions!"

(sarcastically) "I'm glad we never hear you complaining..."

"Matt! Can you hear me, Matt?"

"Matt, I'm here!"

[holding TK] "That could have been a snake, or worse,"

"Matt! Are you out there?"

"When we get back, this is gonna make one great story. Yup... but... of course, not a single soul will ever believe me."

[talking about Frigimon] "Yup, this is him. He happened to see you fall on this island and he got us here in no time,"

"When we had to survive on our own, we grew up very fast... except for Joe, he just threw up very fast..."

"But my dad likes his mess where it is..."

"Matt!"

"You can do it, and even if you can't, we won't think any less of you, man!"

[looking at Agumon in his poor disguise] "Yeah. That's real inconspicuous."

"I thought we'd never find you guys! It is sure lucky we met up with Frigimon."

[About Keramon] "Maybe we should tell someone important like the principal or Bill Gates or something..."

"That is the last time I eat camp food!"

"Matt! Gabumon!"

"Oh, yeah? Try it, you tincan!"

"Well, come on!"

Yamato "Matt" Ishida

"Great! Anybody bring a helicopter?"

"We've sacrificed too much to give up now!"

"Has anybody noticed? We talk a lot about food."

"Boy, that's productive. This thing puts the pieces together, and then it takes them apart."

"I finally got it figured out. If I'm ever gonna change, I have to do it on my own. On my own. The others can't help me."

"If she wants to cry, let her."

"I've never let anyone get close to me before."

"No question, man, you are the dude of doodles!"

"Put your fists down when you talk to me and stop acting like you can bully your way into being the leader!"

"Moving right along, folks... keep it moving... Our next stop on the tour will be the forest of irrelevant road signs. No pictures, please."

"Computer guys can never just tell you something. They have to spend all day explaining it to you..."

"I swore I would never let anyone see me cry. But really, all I ever wanted to do was cry." [Gabumon: Then cry.] "I hate being alone..."

"Guys, the closest thing our grandmother has to computer is an egg timer..."

"They're not weird, they're my best friends! [Quietly] Considering this is the only computer in town..."

"I'm sick of all your blabbering Davis, you're the only one who hasn't tried yet, so just get in the hole!"

"First I'll take a little stroll over to our old refrigerator and take a peek at what's not expired..."

"Is that a ring in your nose or is that an allergic reaction?"

"Did it all of a sudden get sunnier - or is it just Tai's sunny disposition?"

(To TK and Tokomon) "Remember, it's an amusement park - so like ... amuse yourselves.

(The recipe for something really hot he's cooked up for him and TK) "It's a secret but I'll tell you... A little bit of hot sauce, a little wasabi and a mystery meat I found in the freezer covered in green fuzz!"

"Well, at least my cat's not stuck in a tree!"

"We all know you're tight Tai but just give us a little space!"

Mimi Tachikawa

"(Gasps) Wow! Why didn't I pack my fluffy pink snow boots?"

"Togemon!"

"I'm gonna sit here and stare at the flowers until everyone starts getting along."

"Lilymon!"

"HELP! Somebody please find us!"

"We're going to be okay, just keep moving along."

[places her pink cowboy hat on Palmon's head] "Here, you wear my hat for a while. You need it more than I do,"

"This beach would be a lot more popular if it had a lot more things, like an ocean, a gentle breeze, a snack bar, a hunky lifeguard, you know?"

[about the village] "Maybe they'll have hats for sale, half-off."

[about the money the group had]"Whoops, we went and spent it all."

"Now remember T.K., don't move!

Koushiro "Izzy" Izum

(repeated line) "Prodigious!"

"Do you have Internet access?"

"You're going to need a password! You can use mine to get on the Internet: 'Prodigious'!"

"Potato chips, chocolate chips... anything but computer chips!"

[To Tentomon] "I love you."

"I'm one step ahead of you, Tai."

"It's Alive!"

"She appears to be conversing with herself."

Sora Takenouchi

"Too bad your brain isn't as big as your hair."

"Oh, like that's gonna help."

"Now that you boys have holes in your heads, maybe your brains will get more oxygen."

"I don't care what you're faster than! As long as you're faster than a gigantic, rolling teddy bear!"

T.K.

"I'm gonna build the biggest snowman!"

"Help me! I can't swim so good, Patamon!"

"Matt, help!"

"Oh, no!"

"Patamon, help!"

"Oh, no! Poor Patamon!"

"Hiya, Matt!"

"I thought I'd never see you again,"

"Matt!"

"Matt! Somebody, get me down!"

"Joe! He's caught!"

"Matt, help me!"

"Matt, I'm gonna tell Mom that you were fighting!"

"Big Bro...you're the best!"

Tentomon[edit]

"Gomamon, get a grip! The last thing we need is any more fighting around here!"

"Tentomon digivolve to - Kabu never mind..."

Digitamamon[edit]

"Very persiptive of you."

"How nice, your little brother decided to hang around,"

Vegiemon[edit]

[while holding T.K. hostage] "Call off your beast!"

"Hey! Back off, furball, or the kid's lunchmeat! Got it?"

Gabumon[edit]

"Look out!"

"I don't know, Kari. I hope so,"

Joe Kido[edit]

"You gotta believe me, Matt."

"Attack, I'm fine."

"Have we seen a bad Digimon? No!"

"Would you please stop taunting the deranged android?"

"Tai, I'm so glad to see you, but don't break anything."

"Oh, uh...Matt's around back."

"That's going too far! I've had it."

Agumon[edit]

"Then our friends must be nearby. It did the same thing we found T.K."

"Tai, stop that!"

"Matt, Tai, quit it!"

"Pepper breath!"

"Bug up the nose? That's a bad thing?"

"Agumon digivolve to - Greymon! Greymon! Greymon, yeah, I'm Greymon! I'm big and I'm bad..."

Gomamon[edit]

"T.K."

"Gabumon and Matt! Boy, is Joe ever going to be glad to see you!"

[popping out of Joe's gym bag] "Ta-da! Fresh air."

"I make a mean PB & J,"

"Yeah, he's here, but...Joe can tell you about it."

"Marching fishes!"

Hikari "Kari" Kamiya[edit]

"It looks like a flip-flop with a bent nail in it."

"My light will guide us toward the others."

"Being a Digidestined means that sometimes you have to save the world, even if you're the one who caused the problem."

Miyako "Yolei" Inoue[edit]

"Let's go get that evil, cute guy!"

"This helmet makes my glasses look smaller!"

"Perfecto!" ("Bingo!" in the Japanese version)

(about Ken) "I didn't say I wanted to kiss him, duh, I just wanna marry him!"

Ken Ichijouji[edit]

"Hero time, Wormmon!"

"AH-HA! HA! HA! HA! HA-Oh, it's not that funny!

"Aaaaauuuuhhh!"

(grabs Cody by the leg mid-fall) "I've got you Cody!"

"He...called me a punk."

"Uh, Davis... What are you doing?"

(thinking sarcastically) "Thanks a lot, Davis. Great, no pressure."

"This Christmas party was a bad idea... I should forget the whole thing. But what am I going to do with all that eggnog?"

"What could you digivolve into? A giant butterfly with scary looking wings?"

Gatomon[edit]

(Before jumping off cliff to get to Kari) Eh, what the heck. I've got nine lives.

"What in the DigiWorld is she doing?"

"Kari!"

"She's losing it."

Gennai[edit]

The sky will be darkened by the wings of many fallen people will invoke the name of the undead Digimon king and when the clock strikes the hour of the beast, the undead king will reveal himself in his true form as the angels will shoot arrows of hope and light at the loved ones of those they've been sent to protect, and a miracle will happen. Please always recycle.

Dialogue[edit]

Metalseadramon: This my moment to shine! Does my hair look alright?

Divermon: Ya.

T.k Takaishi: How boring. I'm not having any fun at all!

Puppetmon: (aghast) What? I'm the life of the party...I put the fun in fungus.

TK Takaishi: (scoffs) HA! You just play the same game over and over again...boring!

Puppetmon: (distraught) I'm not boring!

T.k Takaishi: (Being held at eye level by Matt) Gee, Matt, you look different, have you done something with your hair?

Matt: (deadpan) No, I'm just not using as much hair gel that's all.

Sora: What kinda sicko turns people into keychains?!

Piedmon: I'm not a sicko. I'm a collector, and these new items have such sentimental value to me.

Kari Kamiya: His smile makes him look so gentle.

TK Takaishi: Yeah, but his hair makes him look a bit' like you, Kari.

Kari: I can't leave now, there's a magician coming over and I've already promised to get sawed in half!

Tai: Well, make sure the half with feet comes home as soon as possible!

Mimi: Ew, what's that awful smell?

Tai: Heh, sorry. I guess now we know why they call them sweat socks huh?

Tentomon: Whenever my skin gets dirty, I just shed it.

Izzy Izumi: That would be difficult for me.

Ken: You will bow down before me.

T.K. Takashi: Sorry, the floor's kind of dirty.

T.K. Takashi: When you can't think of anything to say, do you always resort to fighting?

Ken: I guess...

T.K. Takashi: That's your problem. You don't know when to talk and when to fight. Now's a good time to talk... on the other hand... it's also a good time to fight! (punches Ken).

[about Piedmon]

Joe: He made them all disappear.

Tentomon: Well, at least he didn't saw them in half.

Matt: I've been living a lie.

Gabumon: You're not a real blonde?

Cherrymon: Behold the face of your rival!

Matt: So you're saying... I have to fight Tai, is that it? [laughs] Nice try, foliage face! You had me going there! You'll have to do better than that!

Cherrymon: I had nothing to do with it. The Lake of Truth reflects only what is in a person's heart, hence the name.

Matt: You gotta be kidding.

Cherrymon: Sorry, kid. It's never wrong.

Matt: That right? Well, I got news for you. It's off this time, way off!

BlackWarGreymon: I'm going to a place were all things get lost.

Davis: You should try my sock drawer.

Davis: Sorry I'm late. I was supposed to get a haircut but when I looked in the mirror, I realized my hair was already perfect.

Yolei: The only thing is he was staring in the mirror for over an hour.

Arukenimon: Oh, don't go anywhere. I'll be back to destroy you in a minute.

Mummymon: Ditto that.

Davis: Destiny Stones can break my bones, but you guys are real losers!

Davis: Alright, if you're gonna destroy me, then will you please proceed to wash your hands first? I like to keep things clean.

Veemon: Good thing he hasn't seen your room...

Ken: (Thinking) It looks like Cody still hates me. Well, here it goes.

Cody: (Thinking) It looks like Ken still hates me. Well, here he comes.

Ken: Here you go, Cody. You're invited, too.

Cody: Really? I'm glad I made your list!

Ken: Ahem. I request the honor of your presence at a holiday celebration. That is...

TK: Say no more. You're having a Christmas party. We're in!

Veemon: Hey Ken, can we come?

Ken: Of course! Maybe you'll even catch Gatomon under the mistletoe!

Ken: Come on, Davis! Can't we move any faster?

Davis: Don't be a backseat driver, Ken!

Davis: Hey, it's getting pretty dark in these woods. Here, Kari, I'll hold your hand so you won't get scared.

Kari: I'm not scared.

T.K.: And it's not her hand... it's mine.

[Joe is doubled up on the floor in pain and clutching his stomach]

Kari: Joe, what is it?

Joe: My stomach.

Kari: What's wrong does it hurt?

Joe: No. I'm just doing this 'cause it's fun.

Mimi: Everyone's being so nice, so sweet!

Palmon: Must be because of your charming personality!

Ogremon: Something tells me we should just nod our heads and go along.

Meramon: Yeah, right.

Gomamon: Come on, admit it Joe! Say it! She's charming!

Joe: (blushing) SHE'S NOT CHARMING! I mean she is! I'm... not going to have this conversation!

Sora: Cheer up. Tell me how you like your eggs and I'll do the best I can.

Joe: I prefer my eggs to be covered in salt and pepper, but I guess it doesn't really matter.

Tai: I like soy sauce.

Matt: How about salsa?

Sora: How about a reality check?

Izzy: I'll have mine with mustard and jellybeans, please.

Matt: How gross!

T.K.: Jellybeans. That sounds good.

Mimi: What? You're all weird! My favorite is eggs covered in maple syrup! Sometimes I like to eat them with cherries on top!

Tai: Now that's weird!

T.K.: But I bet it's good.

Joe: You guys are completely making me lose my appetite! I mean, come on. Jellybeans and cherries on eggs? That's just crazy talk! Salt and pepper is all they need. Keep it simple. That's always been my motto.

Tai: Be ready when I give the signal.

Izzy: Roger.

Mimi: He forgot his name!

Joe: [looking at a picture of Gommamon] Alright, look at Gommamon!

Gomamon: I'm cuter in person.

Gennai: You must never forget that you are the Digidestined.

Joe: I'll never forget this stomachache.

Koromon: How did you know my card was the fake, Tai?

Tai: I didn't. I kept your card because you're my friend.

Koromon: (sarcastically) Oh, how nice.

Sora: There are millions of kids like us in the world.

Biyomon: You mean there are millions of Soras?

Sora: (yelling) There's only one of me!

Tai: Did you find anything down there, Izzy?

Tentomon: You could say that, Tai, but the thing is we're up here and you're down there.

Agumon: I think you guys may need glasses. We're way up here above you.

Izzy: But that can't be! That's scientifically impossible!

Davis: See that guys? I got a noogie! It means I'm one of the guys now!

Demiveemon: Davis? If you're one of the guys now, does that means you were one of the girls before? Why can't you humans ever make up your minds? I'm so confused...

Davis: Let's go, T.A.!

TK Takashi: T.A.?

Kari: He forgot how to spell T.K.!

Tentomon: Exactly, but TK and Kari not only have moms and dads, they have something else too.

Izzy's Father: They have brothers.

Tentomon: In a word, bingo!

Izzy: Why would you want them shooting arrows at your loved ones? Sounds kind of dangerous to me.

Izzy's Mother: They're angels, Izzy. Maybe they're like Cupid, he was sort of like an angel. When he shot arrows, they were arrows of love.

Izzy: Mom, isn't that a little corny?

Tentomon: It may be corny, but I believe it. All we have to do is get Angemon and Angewomon to hit you guys with their arrows of love.

Izzy: Hey! Let's not be too hasty here!

Matt Ishida: Well, what do you think?

Tai: It's worth a shot. Kari!

Matt: T.K.!

T.K.: You sure you wanna?

Tai: Let's see these arrows of hope and light!

Matt: You two have got to get them to shoot at us.

Tai: They'll only do it if you tell them to.

Kari: You really want them to shoot you?

TK: What if you get, like, dead or something?

Matt: Never happen.

Kari: Okay. Angewomon!

TK: Angemon, listen up! I know this maybe sounds crazy but shoot Matt and Tai with your arrows.

Kari: You too, Angewomon.

Angemon: He's right.

Angewomon: Sounds crazy, but...

Gabumon: Wait! You sure about this?

Agumon: What if that prophecy's all wrong?

Tai: You guys want a miracle to happen or not?

Matt: Yeah, miracles require a little faith. Scared, Tai?

Tai: No, no at all. How 'bout you, Matt?

Matt: Course not! Piece of cake! (Matt takes Tai's hang) But maybe I'll just hang onto you to make sure you don't chicken out or anything.

Tai: Yeah. right. I'll do the same for you, buddy. (Their crests start to glow)

Angemon: One miracle...!

Angewomon: ...comin' up!

[Joe catches Gomamon eating]

Joe: Did I just hear you eating again?!

Gomamon: Uh-huh.

Joe: Didn't I tell you not to eat all the food, since we don't know when we'll find land?! I told you that we need to ration, which means save food for later, as in "much later"!

Gomamon: But it is later Joe. You told me that 20 minutes ago.

Joe: [shakes his partner] 20 minutes is not much later! Please tell me there is still some food in the bag!

Gomamon: Well, no. Since you can't handle eating and floating on the ocean at the same time, I ate it all. Besides, I need food to Digivolve in case we run into bad Digimon.

Joe: [shakes his partner again] So, have we seen any bad Digimon?! NO! If I starve, who are you gonna protect?!

[he retches and heaves over the side of the bed]

Gomamon: That's enough about food. Things'll get better soon. Hang in there buddy.

[both see a crate coming near the bed]

Gomamon: That crate is gonna hit us!

Joe: Maybe it's full of fruit, vegetables, bread, milk, cereal, hot dogs, cookies, candy, and soda?!

Gomamon: I wish!

Joe: [shakes his partner yet again] You wish?! We wouldn't need more food if you hadn't eaten ours!

Gomamon: You're strong when you're hungry!

Joe: Starvation is a good motivator. Looks like we'll need a jackhammer to open this.

Yolei: I hate Go Fish. Can't we play something else?

Davis: Sure, let's play strip-

Patamon: Aren't cats supposed to land on their feet?

Gatomon: Oh, shut up.

Veemon: Now that Ken's run Tentomon out of his tree, maybe we can climb it and have a look around.

Davis: You bet!

Tentomon: Stay out of my tree! I know exactly how many pieces of bark are on it.

[After Davis makes an unamusing joke about cutting ShogunGekomon's hair]

Kari: Davis, sometimes you're so insensitive.

Davis: (jumps around flailing his arms) I'm so sensitive that I use a special toothpaste so my teeth don't hurt when I eat ice cream! Ahhh!

[Kari giggles and laughs]

Apocalymon: Do you think it's fair that I have to live with all this agony?! Why should you get to laugh, while I am forced to cry?! Why do you get to taste the best that life has to offer, while all I can do is choke on its leftovers?! Answer me this! WHY DO ALL OF YOU GET THE PIZZA, WHILE I GET THE CRUST?!

Mimi: Ahh, I can't take all these metaphors!

Izzy: Boy, this guy really holds a grudge.

Apocalymon: I will rule the world and plunge it into darkness, so that I don't have to be alone anymore in my misery! [laughs madly] Wait a minute, what am I laughing at? I'm supposed to be depressed!

Mimi: Oh my! I would just love to take on home and put it on my bed with all my other stuffed animals!

Matt: There she goes again. Do you think Mimi hears the same things we hear? I'm not so sure anymore.

Izzy: Maybe she's an alien spy.

T.K: Smells better than broccoli. Who knows, it might taste better.

Matt: Has anybody noticed? We talk a lot about food.

Sora: Nah, I'm not hungry.

Joe: I'm skipping this one too. I just don't like to eat on an empty stomach. Besides, I don't even know what that stuff is, but I'm sure I'm allergic to it.

Agumon: Now let's try some solo performances, starting with Mimi.

Tai: Mimi?

Sora: Mimi?

Izzy: Mimi?

Matt: Singing?

Mimi: Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam... (Singing badly)

Joe: Avoiding your song.

Mimi: Oh come on I had singing lessons for three years.

T.K: Oh you did? Did it help?

Izzy: Mimi, you should get a refund. That's what I think.

Kari: [after Wizardmon sacrificed himself to save her and Gatomon] Wizardmon, you're gonna be all right. Please don't leave! Wizardmon!

Wizardmon: [weakly] Are you all right, Gatomon?

Gatomon: [in tears] You saved me. I'm sorry.

Wizardmon: About what?

Gatomon: I'm sorry that I got you involved in this.

Wizardmon: Don't be sorry. I don't have any regrets. If I wouldn't met you, my life would have no meaning. I'm glad you and I were friends.

Gatomon: That's forever.

Wizardmon: Thank you for everything, Gatomon. [dies]

Gotsumon: [Pumpkinmon runs right into a teenager who falls down on the ground] Wow, you hit down some kind of monster!

Pumpkinmon: Even worse, I think I hit down a teenager!

Matt: You're a thief! We worked so hard we could afford a trip to Hawaii!

Digitamamon: [Growing furiously] Hawaii is not on the schedule, but if you insist I'll send you to the moon! [Attacks]

Myotismon: [To Wizardmon] Did you really think you could betray me and get away with it?

Wizardmon: [Protecting Gatomon] How could I betray you? I was never on your side to start with!

[non American dub] (while Angewomon and Deviwomon (LadyDevimon) are slapping each other)

Taichi: Is that how women fight?

Koushirou: Yeah, they must slap each other to death!

(The bitter fight between Angewomon and Deviwomon (LadyDevimon) has become a heated, and comical, slapping catfight. The guys all stare.)

Tai: Wow... Look at 'em go.

Izzy: I know I shouldn't be watching, but I can't take my eyes off them.

Kari: Get her Angewomon! That's right! Knock that witch's block off! Go!

Angewomon: Vamdemon. Not only did you interfere with the Chosen Children's mission, but you have invaded the real world and killed my friend, Wizarmon. Learn the full weight of your sins!

Vamdemon: I will change everything in this world into darkness! After fusing this place with the Digital World, I will become its sole ruler! I only did what I was destined to do!

Angemon: Vamdemon. Does this mean you have no intent of repenting for your sins?

Vamdemon: Hmph. Dead-

Angewomon: Saint Air!

Vamdemon: Ugh!

MetalGreymon: My strength is being restored!

WereGarurumon: Now!

Garudamon: Give our power to Angewomon!

AtlurKabuterimon: Horn Buster!

Lillymon: Flower Cannon!

Zudomon: Vulcan's Hammer!

WereGarurumon: Wolf Claw!

Garudamon: Wing Blade!

MetalGreymon: Giga Blaster!

Angemon: Hand of Fate!

Angewomon: Celestial Arrow!

Vamdemon: Don't! Uuuu... Uuuuaaarrrghhh!

(American dub)

Angewomon: Myotismon. You've tried to destroy the Digidestined and attempted to conquer Earth. In doing so, you have ruined the lives of Digimon and humans alike. How can you justify yourself?

Vamdemon: I don't have to explain myself to the likes of you! It is my destiny to plunge this world into darkness and become king of the Digital World! And no angel or Digimon has the power to stop me!

Angemon: Myotismon, don't you have any regrets for the things you have done?

Vamdemon: Hmph. Nightmare-

Angewomon: Heaven's Charm!

Vamdemon: Ugh!

MetalGreymon: My power! It's...it's growing!

WereGarurumon: Now!

Garudamon: Everyone, give your power to Angewomon!

AtlurKabuterimon: Horn Buster!

Lillymon: Flower Cannon!

Zudomon: Vulcan's Hammer!

WereGarurumon: Wolf Claw!

Garudamon: Wing Blade!

MetalGreymon: Giga Blaster!

Angemon: Hand of Fate!

Angewomon: Celestial Arrow!

Vamdemon: Don't! Uuuu... Uuuuaaarrrghhh!

(When they first meet Gennai)

Mimi: HOW COME YOU CALLED US THE DIGIDESTINED!?

Gennai: I'm old, not deaf!

Joe: Whatever they are, they're aggrivating my hay-fever.

Matt: Hey Joe. Is there anything you don't complain about?

Cherrymon: (to Matt) What's the matter? Never seen a talking tree?

Matt: Not many.

Phone Operator This number only exists in your imagination. Please hang up, and don't call back.

Matt: What planet did I dial?

Phone Operator: Tomorrow's forecast calls for clear skies with occasional ice cream

Mimi: What do you wear for that?

Joe: Tai knows what he's doing. He knows where he fits in, and so do you. So do the others. But I don't! Look, I know that we're in for the fight of our lives, and part of me knows that I should stay and help. But I...I want you to count on me. If I'm unreliable, then Gomamon can't fully Digivolve. We're like circus clowns; we just get in the way. Don't look at me like that; you know it's true! I'm gonna figure this out! They don't call me old reliable for nothin'!

Gomamon: But they don't.

Joe: I'll ignore that.

Joe: Don't come any closer! Shoo! Go away!

Gomamon: Relax! It's just an image.

Sora: Yeah, save your screaming for the real thing.

Digimon the Movie[edit]

Part I[edit]

[Agumon jumps to avoid on coming car]

Passenger: Did you see that?

Driver: [tired sounding] No, I was sleeping.

Passenger: But you're driving!

[Agumon detroys vending machines, Kari is on his back in a Koloa-like outfit.]

Kari: Hey! Mom says not to do that to society!

[Kari takes two of the beverages that came from the destroyed machines]

Kari: Just one each!

Mrs. Kamiya: Kids, I'm making your favorite, liver sticks!

Tai: Great...

[closes the door]

Tai: Oh, good. It looks like she burned them.

Sora: [over the phone] Tai, I know you're there! Mimi told me you were the one who threw up in my hat!

Part II/Our War Game[edit]

[After Meeting up with the Digidestined on the internet]

Patamon: I was surfing the web, but I wiped out.

[Tentomon and Agumon enter the Internet and spot Keramon]

Tentomon: He doesn't know we're here yet!

Agumon: Let's sneak up on him quietly!

Tentomon: [shouts] Super Shocker!

Agumon: That's quietly?

[After repeated e-mails are sent to slow down Diaboromon]

Izzy: YOU'VE... GOT... MAIL! [presses enter]

[Wargreymon and Metalgarurumon are becoming Omnimon]

Izzy: They're digivolving together!

Izzy: I'm... about... to barf.

Tai: Wait 'till you try the cake.

[Tai is typing an email]

Tai: "Dear Sora, I'm sorry I made fun of your hair. I know you haven't been this mad at me since I forgot to tell you I threw up in your hat. You say you love thunderstorms, so what's a few raindrops between friends? Love, Tai." Love? I meant from! [changes "love" to "from"]

Kari: Whatcha writing?

Tai: Nothing! It's just a joke! [Covers the monitor. "from" changes back to "love"]

Kari: If you want to send an email, you'll have to do this. [grabs the mouse] Click!

Tai: I wasn't going to send that!

Kari: Then why were you writing it?

Tai: (groans) Go to your party!

Kari: (sarcasm) OK!

Infermon: I'm looking for the programmer. Don't interfere!

[Diaboromon has been killed by Omnimon]

Omnimon: Connection... Terminated.

Diaboromon: Willis...

Part III[edit]

[After Terriermon Digivolves for the first time]

Willis: He wears pants now?

[Before Lunch]

Terriermon: If Davis eats it all... [Inflates Stomach]

DemiVeemon: [Laughing]

[Terriermon Inflates ears to shade Willis]

Willis: I don't suppose you could turn into a glass of lemonade too?

Terriermon: Don't push it.

Davis: There's not an ounce of fat below my neck!

Willis: You're gonna deliver that pizza to my house, aren't you! Could you do me a favor and pick us up on the way?

Davis: Tell them to forget the whole thing, because I'm in the mood for Chinese.

Willis: Shut up!

[After Willis share his back story]

Davis: (crying) That is the saddest story I have every heard.

Willis': Hey, it's not your problem.

Davis: (Stops crying) OK.

Willis: Wow, that was fast.

(Davis and Willis need a ride so Veemon digivolves to Raidramon to give them one)

Davis: Did somebody call for a ride?

Terriermon: Wow, that's cool!

Willis: Haven't you done that before?

(They ride through a meadow and a bunch of kids run alongside)

Kid: Hey, can we get a ride too?

Davis: Sorry, but we're on a mission!

(The three approach where the others are appearing as a cloud of dust)

Upamon: Hey, its a big gust of wind!

Cody: No, it's Davis!

Yolie: Same difference.

Digimon Tamers[edit]

Takato Matsuki[edit]

"Mom, why are girls weird?"

(after screaming his lungs out to give WarGrowlmon power) Well, that was a scream!

"How could you...? How could you do this horrible thing...!? I'll make you hurt...I'LL MAKE YOU PAY!" (he and WarGrowlmon scream with rage)

Guilmon[edit]

(Repeated line)"Takatomon"

"Being scared is pointless, it's like trying to ice skate on sausages"

Henry Wong[edit]

"Mine must be broken. I can't control Terriermon at all."

Terriermon[edit]

"Mo-men-tai"

(when Henry gets annoyed at him for not staying home) "I may never go home after what she did. Suzie's Chamber of Horrors is worse than battling any Digimon!"

Suzie Wong[edit]

"Pwincess Pwetty Pants!" (about Terriermon)

Rika Nonaka[edit]

"This isn't the kind of fight we can walk away from."

"Walk all over him, Renamon!"

"I guess wherever you go, there you are."

"Duh! That is what Digimon do; they fight. And when they win, they get stronger, and when they get stronger, they digivolve. You two are just our stepping stones!"

Jeri Katou[edit]

"Sorry Takato, Jeri only likes you as a friend'- Talking through puppet

"Destiny. Destiny. Destiny."

[Talking through puppet] "Bad flute! Bad!"

Ryo Akiyama[edit]

"Just keep dreaming and you can make anything happen!"

Kazu[edit]

(holding Takato's hand to encourage him) "I'm not holding your hand because I like you, you know!"

Yamaki[edit]

(monolouge over scenes of the D-Reaper shrinking) The nightmare finally ended. It still seems strange that a misguided program could cause so much damage believeing it was doing the right thing. Maybe we have more in common with the D-Reaper then we'd like to believe. But today we won by coming together, which makes me believe there's hope for us. All of us.

Dialogue[edit]

Terriermon: "Admit it Henry, you'd be lost without me."

Henry Wong: "Looks like I'm lost with you."

Ms. Asaji: (about why being a zookeeper is bad) You have to work all day with animals and you get no respect.

Takato: Gee, that sounds like what you do right now.

Ms. Asaji: What?!

Henry: (to Rika about Takato) Our little boy is all grown up.

Rika: I'll say!

Henry: (to Terriermon and Guilmon as they run off to battle a Digimon) Wait for us!

Renamon: (appears on a nearby car) If we wait for you we'll be too old to fight. (disappears)

Henry: Hey!

(The gang arrives in the park where a Digimon is Bioemerging)

Terriermon: It's gonna be big!

Takato: How can you tell?

Renamon: We're looking up aren't we?

Takato Matsuki: (brings Guilmon to meet his parents) "Don't freak out, mom..."

Takato's mom: "It's too late for that..."

Takato Matsuki: Mom, Dad, why are girls so crazy?

Mrs. Matsuki: They're not. Their husbands make them that way.

Mr. Matsuki: Hmm...right.

Takato Matsuki: Sorry to wake you up so late.

Henry Wong: That's okay. I was just sleeping.

Terriermon: And not just sleeping... snoring too.

Henry: You better just back off, Rika.

Rika: Or else what? You'll go run off and hide on me? Ooo... I'm so scared.

Guilmon: You going to fight her, Takato?

Takato: No way, she's a girl. Besides, she'd kick my butt.

Henry: Maybe it doesn't matter what card we use, Rika.

Rika: Okay, did that pig monster eat your brain?

IceDevimon: I hear one becomes quite warm before freezing.

Henry Wong: You're so twisted, it's scary.

Rika Nonaka: It's not funny, you know. I don't want to walk all the way to the next town just to find your little friend.

Henry Wong: Well, if it makes your feel any better, Rika. The tunnel might flood and we can all swim there.

Rika Nonaka: It's just my luck to be stuck down here with a couple of comedians.

Terriermon: What are you, Henry, the center of the universe? What, you think the sun won't rise if you're not there to greet it or something?

Henry Wong: What are you talking about?

Terriermon: Just look behind you, Henry.

Henry Wong: Huh?

Terriermon: You don't have to do everything yourself. They're all here to help you. Let 'em.

Takato Matsuki: Try this card.

Henry Wong: The last one almost killed him.

Takato Matsuki: Hey, I'm just trying to help.

(Beelzemon was about to kill Kyubimon, but Leomon suddenly stops him)

Leomon: I don't know who you are, but I do know you're being used, this power you've been given. Is it worth hurting these children to keep it?

Beelzemon: You don't know anything! (gets punched by Leomon two times)

Leomon: To have power is not to be strong. You see, I know that better than anyone.

Jeri: Leomon...

Leomon: Do what you must, Beelzemon, but I will not let you hurt these children.

(in a rage, Beelzemon impales his clawed hand into Leomon's stomach, and Leomon screamed to death, which shocked everybody, and Leomon collapsed to the ground, slowly dying away.)

Kyubimon: Hey, you! (Beelzemon kicks her)

Rika: Kyubimon!

Leomon: Why can't you see? Why won't you try to understand the truth?

Leomon: (last words) Be brave, Jeri. Part of me will always be with you. Remember, you have a lion's heart.

Beelzemon: (to WarGrowlmon) Nice outfit, but you're still no match for me, you big lump! Just so you know, metal mouth, when I'm done with you, I'm gonna finish your friends off one by one!

Takato Matsuki: You're wrong! You're the one who's finished! (the scene flips to an angry WarGrowlmon's face, then roars with rage, and starts to attack Beelzemon)

Beelzemon: Take this, you big dump truck! (fires his guns at WarGrowlmon, which damages him a little, but WarGrowlmon tries to bite him)

Takato Matsuki: Finish him! Do it! Tear him apart!

Jeri: Don't do this.

(Beelzemon punches WarGrowlmon in the face)

Takato Matsuki: You cannot lose! I won't allow it! I order you to Digivolve! Digivolve- NOW!

Ryo: I feel so powerless.

Ebonwumon: Better to feel powerless than to feel dead.

Impmon: PUT ME DOWN YOU UGLY FURBALL!

Renamon: Or what, you'll use that little flame of yours to boil water and make me some bad tea?

Guilmon: I need a bigger tummy Takato, can you draw me one?

Takato Matsuki: Okay.

Guilmon: You're a pal.

Terriermon: Draw him some self control.

Henry Wong: And just how many buns have you had?

Terriermon: Two, three, twelve, lost count.

Mrs. Wong: You know Terriermon, Henry could learn from you. He's handsome, but skinny as a mosquito.

Renamon: Anything that can concern a sovereign is not to be taken lightly.

Terriermon: How can we take it lightly? It's huge.

Renamon: What I'm saying is we need a plan.

Terriermon: Going in and beating him up isn't plan enough?

Guilmon: Terriermon, I think Renamon is right. I mean she's always been right before what's different about now?

Renamon: Why thank you.

Terriermon: Renamon and Guilmon sitting in a tree...

Rika: Nobody interferes, I want to sing.

Takato: You Wha?!

Rika: Nobody interferes, I want to sing.

Takato: Okay, just drop that wrench and I'll sing with you!

Guilmon: Do you even know how to sing?

Mr. Wong: Give me your portable digi thing.

Henry: You mean my digivice?

Mr. Wong: Yeah, come on, I'll arm wrestle you for it.

Henry: Since you put it that way...

Mr. Wong: When we designed the prototype we wanted to give kids a way to communicate with and control digimon on the network.

Henry: Maybe mine's broken because I can't control Terriermon at all.

Terriermon: It would take more than a piece of plastic to control me.

Guardromon: Are you sure that's safe?

Suzy: No.

Guardromon: Oh. OK!

[Renamon materializes next to Rika]

Takato: Where do you come from all the time!? Do you just wait around to scare us?

(Guardromon lets Suzie fly away to Lopmon despite Kazu's orders to watch her)

Kazu: I told you to watch her!

Guardromon: I did: I watched the whole thing!

Kazu: That's not what I meant!

[Impmon heads off to help the Tamers armed with a toy gun after promising Ai and Mako to return]

Impmon: Who am I kidding promising to come back? A sawed-off pipsqueak with a toy gun! Still, I gotta help them! [digivolves into Beelzemon as he runs]

Beelzemon: [watches as Mako's gun transforms into a giant cannon] You know Mako, this just might come in handier than you think! Excellent! [digivolves into Beelzemon: Blast Mode]

Beelzemon: Blast Mode: I've never felt this kind of power before and this time I'm fighting for what's right! [flies off] Feels pretty good when you got someone to fight for! Hey, who knew!

[Antylamon saves Justimon and helps him destroy ADR-06]

Antylamon: Teamwork triumphs again! I'm glad I could help, I was almost too late.

Guilmon: (as the Tamers are losing to the Parasimon) Takatomon, what do we do?!

Takato: I won't let Parasimon win!

(A massive burst of crimson light shoots out of Gallantmon and he emerges from it in Crimson Mode)

Henry: Whoa!

Rika: Beautiful!

Gallantmon: Crimson Mode: Gallantmon: Crimson Mode! (flys into the portal to the Digital World) Crimson Light! (throws his sword into the portal causing a wave of energy to emerge from it and destroy all the Parasimon)

Terriermon: Well that was different!

Henry: (to Gallantmon: Crimson Mode) My, my, aren't you Miss Pwetty Pants!

Guilmon: He thinks we're pretty!

Takato: (amused) Guilmon!

Renamon: Look, I'm not a slave. Rika happens to be my partner.

Impmon: Well your partner's not that impressive, even so she's got you believing that you can't do anything for yourself. It's the most pathetic thing I've ever seen. All you digi-slaves are the same, deep down you wanna be just like me. I mean after all who wouldn't want to be like me? Handsome and free like a bird in a tree! Ba Boom! Hello? This is Class A material, honey. Anyways like I was saying, I think you're really sad, and you know what that makes me? Huh? Angry, that's what. And anger is not good for me to see a good looking digimon like you going to waste, it makes me wanna throw up!

Renamon: Why do you think I'm sad?

Impmon: Why? Hm hm, I mean look at you, out here all alone, moping around in the moonlight like a puppy that chewed up a slipper and got tossed outta the house. Ha ha, you're in serious denial lady. There's a whole other world out there, actually a couple of them. But if you're happy fetching bones for some human then be my guest.

Renamon: If that's your best material, then you need a new writer(she jumps off the wire where she and Impmon were standing).

Impmon:Hey! Where you going! That was rude you know? Didn't your little human teach you manners? Huh? (notices that Renamon is ignoring him) Apparently not, then maybe I can teach ya something. In today's lesson, we'll begin with tough love (he makes a fireball with a snap of his fingers over his pointer finger)Ba da Boom! (tosses the fireball at Renamon)

Renamon: (turns around and sees the fireball coming at her) Huh? (she turns around again and shields herself but the fireball pops just before hitting her) Uh!

Renamon: (after defeating an allomon by freezing him) now don't move, good boy (she prepares her diamond storm) buh-bye, handsome.

Digimon Frontier[edit]

Takuya Kanbara: You're toast, lady!

Ranamon: Thanks, but I've already had my breakfast.

[J.P. becomes MetalKabuterimon and turns his attention to a nervous Grumblemon who backs away, scared]

Grumblemon: Don't be hasty now, friend.

MetalKabuterimon: You're no friend of mine, Grumblemon! You don't even understand the meaning of friendship! Electron Cannon! [blasts Grumblemon with a massive blast of energy, causing his Fractal Code to appear and his last Golemon to be destroyed] MetalKabuterimon Slide...' '[turns into Beetlemon]

Beetlemon: Evolution! Beetlemon! It's back to the egg for you pal! Fractal Code Digitize!

[Beetlemon takes Grumblemon's Fractal Code and the Human Spirit of Earth while the Human Spirit of Wind returns to Zoe. Grumblemon turns into a Digi-Egg and flies away]

Zoe: [to her Spirit] Hey, welcome back!

[BurningGreymon and Worm set Buffalo on fire]

Buffalo: I'm meltin', I'm meltin'! Oh, what a race, what a race!

[Kazemon becomes Zephyrmon]

Honeybeemon: So beautiful!

Ranamon: Oh please! Slide...

Calmaramon: [Ranamon turns into Calmaramon] Evolution! Now what do you say?

Honeybeemon: So ugly! But... it's still Ranamon. Quick before she gets mad!

[The Honeybeemon quickly and reluctantly cheer for Calmaramon]

[Zephyrmon defeats Calmaramon and her Fractal Code comes out with her Beast Spirit]

Zephyrmon: [takes the Beast Spirit] A gift? You shouldn't have. [Calmaramon turns into Ranamon with her Fractal Code and Human Spirit visible] Slide... [turns into Kazemon]

Kazemon: Evolution! Kazemon. Ranamon, your reign is over. I'd say its been fun but it hasn't! Fractal Code Digitize! [takes Ranamon's Fractal Code and Human Spirit turning her into a Digi-Egg] See ya, sugar! [turns back into Zoe]

Zoe: It's one thing to be nice but its another to be a big pushover.

[Zephyrmon starts beating on Calamaramon in opposition to her usually kind nature]

Calmaramon: Wait your nice, remember?!

Zephyrmon: For you, I'll make an exception!

EmperorGreymon: [purifying Cherubimon whose whole body is surrounded by Fractal Code] I don't know if all that evil can fit in my D-Tector, but if anyone needs purification, this guy does!

[Cherubimon is mortally wounded by EmperorGreymon and purified, crying as he sees the spirits of Seraphimon and Ophanimon]

Patamon: [sadly] See ya soon, Cherubimon.

[Cherubimon dies and turns into a Digi-Egg that flies away]

Susanoomon: [as he deals the death-blow to Lucemon: Shadow Lord Mode] And so... it ends!

BurningGreymon: Arbormon, now will you give up attacking us?

Arbormon: Well, I...

Duskmon: [suddenly appearing] Yes, you will.

[Tommy saves Teppei's life when Katsuharu is too scared to move]

Tommy: [flashback] I'm strong! Your the one who's weak!

Katsuharu: He was right!

Katsuharu: [watching the Warriors take on the Centarumon] They're so brave!

Bokomon: Humph! I'm surprised you know what courage looks like!

Katsuharu: Huh?

Bokomon: Their bravery is why the Spirits chose them.

Agunimon: [to the defeated Centarumon] Alright if you guys are smart you'll run right out of here!

Lobomon: And you'll run fast!

Centarumon: Okay! [runs away screaming]

Agunimon: Man we are good!

Katsuharu: [to Tommy who has bullied in the past; extending a hand] I'm sorry. For real.

Tommy: [stunned] Huh?

Katsuharu: I shouldn't have called you weak, you're braver than I've ever been.

Teppei: You saved my life!

[Tommy shakes Katsuharu's hand in a gesture of forgiveness]

Katsuharu: It would be an honor if you'd let me call you my friend.

Tommy: Sure, you bet.

Takuya: My destiny sure seems to involve a lot of running!

Mercurymon: If only thy mouth were thy weapon, then truly thou couldst never be defeated.

Koji: Kouichi, what's wrong bro?

Kouichi: Nothing, it's nothing.

Koji: You're acting weird.

Kouichi: Well then, maybe I'm just weird.

Koji: [smiling]

Takuya: [wakes up] Where are we?

Zoe: Why, we're in the middle of our date!

Takuya: Our what?

Takuya: You want power?! I'll show you power.. WILD FIRE TSUNAMI!

Tommy: Wait for me!

(Dark Trailmon returns to the station after everyone but a newly-confident Flamemon has left)

Flamemon: (surprised) Dark Trailmon?

Dark Trailmon: Well, I didn't think I'd see you again. Thought you wanted to go home?

Flamemon: I did, I went home. But it was the same and I wasn't. (looks at his hands) I turned into this freakshow 'cause I couldn't figure out who I was.

Dark Trailmon: I see.

Flamemon: Koji was right, I didn't know why I was there, but I do now. Trailmon you have to take me back!

Dark Trailmon: Are you sure? Seems to me that's what got you here in the first place.

Flamemon: (walking determinedly towards Dark Trailmon) Um hum.

Dark Trailmon: This is a one-way ticket kid. I can't turn around if you get any second thoughts.

Flamemon: That's not gonna happen. I've made my decision.

Dark Trailmon: I guess you have. Alright then, all aboard. (Flamemon boards Dark Trailmon)

Flamemon: (looks back at an image of his family) I love you mom and dad. Happy birthday Shinya. See you soon. (sees an image of his friends) Oh Koji, this time things will be different. I know it's not a game now. Hang on, I'm coming! I won't let you down, any of you!

Dark Trailmon: Sounds to me like you figured things out there kid. (Flamemon turns into Agunimon) Not bad, not bad at all. (Dark Trailmon drops Agunimon at the Dark Terminal) End of the line. Or maybe not. I think that's up to you.

Agunimon: Alright, this is it! Everything starts now. I've got another chance and I'm not gonna blow it!

(Kazemon kicks at Calmaramon but she knocks her to the ground)

Kazemon: [defeated] Oh

Calmaramon: I'm so sorry, sugar pie, Were our not enjoying little dance? Too bad. Maybe I should turn up the music [jumps very high]

Takuya: Zoe, look out!

Calmaramon: Ta-ta, honey! Titanic Tempest!

Takuya: Hey, Zoe, how were you able to control your beast spirit so fast?

Zoe: Well, just luck I guess

Tommy: Not' cause you're a girl?

Zoe: Well, maybe, But I won't tell. A girl has to have secret.

Takuya: [To Tommy] You feel as sick as I do right now?

Tommy: No, I'm sicker.

(the image is upside-down)

Tommy: (looking through his legs) Hey, everything's all funny! (image turns rightside-up) Or maybe it's just me!

All: Even if I spend time with my family, or other friends, or our family, or maybe just hanging around not crying, I'll be best friends with you guys, forever!

Digimon Data Squad[edit]

Digimon Fusion[edit]

Monitamon(Analyzer): Shoutmon. His attacks include "Fiery Fastball" and "Rock and Roller", where he shouts so loud that his opponents are obliterated! What a silly attack! Imagine just shouting all the time; who would want to do that?

Shoutmon: That's why they call me Shoutmon, you annoying hunk of junk!


	2. Complete Works of Plato

THE APOLOGY

How you, O Athenians, have been affected by my accusers, I cannot tell; but I know that

they almost made me forget who I was—so persuasively did they speak; and yet they

have hardly uttered a word of truth. But of the many falsehoods told by them, there was

one which quite amazed me;—I mean when they said that you should be upon your

guard and not allow yourselves to be deceived by the force of my eloquence. To say this,

when they were certain to be detected as soon as I opened my lips and proved myself to

be anything but a great speaker, did indeed appear to me most shameless—unless by the

force of eloquence they mean the force of truth; for is such is their meaning, I admit that

I am eloquent. But in how different a way from theirs! Well, as I was saying, they have

scarcely spoken the truth at all; but from me you shall hear the whole truth: not,

however, delivered after their manner in a set oration duly ornamented with words and

phrases. No, by heaven! but I shall use the words and arguments which occur to me at

the moment; for I am confident in the justice of my cause (Or, I am certain that I am

right in taking this course.): at my time of life I ought not to be appearing before you, O

men of Athens, in the character of a juvenile orator—let no one expect it of me. And I

must beg of you to grant me a favour:—If I defend myself in my accustomed manner,

and you hear me using the words which I have been in the habit of using in the agora, at

the tables of the money-changers, or anywhere else, I would ask you not to be surprised,

and not to interrupt me on this account. For I am more than seventy years of age, and

appearing now for the first time in a court of law, I am quite a stranger to the language

of the place; and therefore I would have you regard me as if I were really a stranger,

whom you would excuse if he spoke in his native tongue, and after the fashion of his

country:—Am I making an unfair request of you? Never mind the manner, which may or

may not be good; but think only of the truth of my words, and give heed to that: let the

speaker speak truly and the judge decide justly.

And first, I have to reply to the older charges and to my first accusers, and then I will go

on to the later ones. For of old I have had many accusers, who have accused me falsely to

you during many years; and I am more afraid of them than of Anytus and his associates,

who are dangerous, too, in their own way. But far more dangerous are the others, who

began when you were children, and took possession of your minds with their falsehoods,

telling of one Socrates, a wise man, who speculated about the heaven above, and

searched into the earth beneath, and made the worse appear the better cause. The

disseminators of this tale are the accusers whom I dread; for their hearers are apt to

fancy that such enquirers do not believe in the existence of the gods. And they are many,

and their charges against me are of ancient date, and they were made by them in the

days when you were more impressible than you are now—in childhood, or it may have

been in youth—and the cause when heard went by default, for there was none to answer.

And hardest of all, I do not know and cannot tell the names of my accusers; unless in the

chance case of a Comic poet. All who from envy and malice have persuaded you—some

of them having first convinced themselves—all this class of men are most difficult to

deal with; for I cannot have them up here, and cross-examine them, and therefore I

must simply fight with shadows in my own defence, and argue when there is no one who

answers. I will ask you then to assume with me, as I was saying, that my opponents are

of two kinds; one recent, the other ancient: and I hope that you will see the propriety of

my answering the latter first, for these accusations you heard long before the others, and

much oftener.

Well, then, I must make my defence, and endeavour to clear away in a short time, a

slander which has lasted a long time. May I succeed, if to succeed be for my good and

yours, or likely to avail me in my cause! The task is not an easy one; I quite understand

the nature of it. And so leaving the event with God, in obedience to the law I will now

make my defence.

I will begin at the beginning, and ask what is the accusation which has given rise to the

slander of me, and in fact has encouraged Meletus to proof this charge against me. Well,

what do the slanderers say? They shall be my prosecutors, and I will sum up their words

in an affidavit: 'Socrates is an evil-doer, and a curious person, who searches into things

under the earth and in heaven, and he makes the worse appear the better cause; and he

teaches the aforesaid doctrines to others.' Such is the nature of the accusation: it is just

what you have yourselves seen in the comedy of Aristophanes (Aristoph., Clouds.), who

has introduced a man whom he calls Socrates, going about and saying that he walks in

air, and talking a deal of nonsense concerning matters of which I do not pretend to know

either much or little—not that I mean to speak disparagingly of any one who is a student

of natural philosophy. I should be very sorry if Meletus could bring so grave a charge

against me. But the simple truth is, O Athenians, that I have nothing to do with physical

speculations. Very many of those here present are witnesses to the truth of this, and to

them I appeal. Speak then, you who have heard me, and tell your neighbours whether

any of you have ever known me hold forth in few words or in many upon such

matters...You hear their answer. And from what they say of this part of the charge you

will be able to judge of the truth of the rest.

As little foundation is there for the report that I am a teacher, and take money; this

accusation has no more truth in it than the other. Although, if a man were really able to

instruct mankind, to receive money for giving instruction would, in my opinion, be an

honour to him. There is Gorgias of Leontium, and Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis,

who go the round of the cities, and are able to persuade the young men to leave their

own citizens by whom they might be taught for nothing, and come to them whom they

not only pay, but are thankful if they may be allowed to pay them. There is at this time a

Parian philosopher residing in Athens, of whom I have heard; and I came to hear of him

in this way:—I came across a man who has spent a world of money on the Sophists,

Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and knowing that he had sons, I asked him: 'Callias,' I

said, 'if your two sons were foals or calves, there would be no difficulty in finding some

one to put over them; we should hire a trainer of horses, or a farmer probably, who

would improve and perfect them in their own proper virtue and excellence; but as they

are human beings, whom are you thinking of placing over them? Is there any one who

understands human and political virtue? You must have thought about the matter, for

you have sons; is there any one?' 'There is,' he said. 'Who is he?' said I; 'and of what

country? and what does he charge?' 'Evenus the Parian,' he replied; 'he is the man, and

his charge is five minae.' Happy is Evenus, I said to myself, if he really has this wisdom,

and teaches at such a moderate charge. Had I the same, I should have been very proud

and conceited; but the truth is that I have no knowledge of the kind.

I dare say, Athenians, that some one among you will reply, 'Yes, Socrates, but what is the

origin of these accusations which are brought against you; there must have been

something strange which you have been doing? All these rumours and this talk about

you would never have arisen if you had been like other men: tell us, then, what is the

cause of them, for we should be sorry to judge hastily of you.' Now I regard this as a fair

challenge, and I will endeavour to explain to you the reason why I am called wise and

have such an evil fame. Please to attend then. And although some of you may think that

I am joking, I declare that I will tell you the entire truth. Men of Athens, this reputation

of mine has come of a certain sort of wisdom which I possess. If you ask me what kind of

wisdom, I reply, wisdom such as may perhaps be attained by man, for to that extent I

am inclined to believe that I am wise; whereas the persons of whom I was speaking have

a superhuman wisdom which I may fail to describe, because I have it not myself; and he

who says that I have, speaks falsely, and is taking away my character. And here, O men

of Athens, I must beg you not to interrupt me, even if I seem to say something

extravagant. For the word which I will speak is not mine. I will refer you to a witness

who is worthy of credit; that witness shall be the God of Delphi—he will tell you about

my wisdom, if I have any, and of what sort it is. You must have known Chaerephon; he

was early a friend of mine, and also a friend of yours, for he shared in the recent exile of

the people, and returned with you. Well, Chaerephon, as you know, was very impetuous

in all his doings, and he went to Delphi and boldly asked the oracle to tell him whether—

as I was saying, I must beg you not to interrupt—he asked the oracle to tell him whether

anyone was wiser than I was, and the Pythian prophetess answered, that there was no

man wiser. Chaerephon is dead himself; but his brother, who is in court, will confirm

the truth of what I am saying.

Why do I mention this? Because I am going to explain to you why I have such an evil

name. When I heard the answer, I said to myself, What can the god mean? and what is

the interpretation of his riddle? for I know that I have no wisdom, small or great. What

then can he mean when he says that I am the wisest of men? And yet he is a god, and

cannot lie; that would be against his nature. After long consideration, I thought of a

method of trying the question. I reflected that if I could only find a man wiser than

myself, then I might go to the god with a refutation in my hand. I should say to him,

'Here is a man who is wiser than I am; but you said that I was the wisest.' Accordingly I

went to one who had the reputation of wisdom, and observed him—his name I need not

mention; he was a politician whom I selected for examination—and the result was as

follows: When I began to talk with him, I could not help thinking that he was not really

wise, although he was thought wise by many, and still wiser by himself; and thereupon I

tried to explain to him that he thought himself wise, but was not really wise; and the

consequence was that he hated me, and his enmity was shared by several who were

present and heard me. So I left him, saying to myself, as I went away: Well, although I

do not suppose that either of us knows anything really beautiful and good, I am better

off than he is,— for he knows nothing, and thinks that he knows; I neither know nor

think that I know. In this latter particular, then, I seem to have slightly the advantage of

him. Then I went to another who had still higher pretensions to wisdom, and my

conclusion was exactly the same. Whereupon I made another enemy of him, and of

many others besides him.

Then I went to one man after another, being not unconscious of the enmity which I

provoked, and I lamented and feared this: but necessity was laid upon me,—the word of

God, I thought, ought to be considered first. And I said to myself, Go I must to all who

appear to know, and find out the meaning of the oracle. And I swear to you, Athenians,

by the dog I swear! —for I must tell you the truth—the result of my mission was just this:

I found that the men most in repute were all but the most foolish; and that others less

esteemed were really wiser and better. I will tell you the tale of my wanderings and of

the 'Herculean' labours, as I may call them, which I endured only to find at last the

oracle irrefutable. After the politicians, I went to the poets; tragic, dithyrambic, and all

sorts. And there, I said to myself, you will be instantly detected; now you will find out

that you are more ignorant than they are. Accordingly, I took them some of the most

elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked what was the meaning of them—

thinking that they would teach me something. Will you believe me? I am almost

ashamed to confess the truth, but I must say that there is hardly a person present who

would not have talked better about their poetry than they did themselves. Then I knew

that not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they

are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not understand

the meaning of them. The poets appeared to me to be much in the same case; and I

further observed that upon the strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be

the wisest of men in other things in which they were not wise. So I departed, conceiving

myself to be superior to them for the same reason that I was superior to the politicians.

At last I went to the artisans. I was conscious that I knew nothing at all, as I may say,

and I was sure that they knew many fine things; and here I was not mistaken, for they

did know many things of which I was ignorant, and in this they certainly were wiser

than I was. But I observed that even the good artisans fell into the same error as the

poets;—because they were good workmen they thought that they also knew all sorts of

high matters, and this defect in them overshadowed their wisdom; and therefore I asked

myself on behalf of the oracle, whether I would like to be as I was, neither having their

knowledge nor their ignorance, or like them in both; and I made answer to myself and to

the oracle that I was better off as I was.

This inquisition has led to my having many enemies of the worst and most dangerous

kind, and has given occasion also to many calumnies. And I am called wise, for my

hearers always imagine that I myself possess the wisdom which I find wanting in others:

but the truth is, O men of Athens, that God only is wise; and by his answer he intends to

show that the wisdom of men is worth little or nothing; he is not speaking of Socrates,

he is only using my name by way of illustration, as if he said, He, O men, is the wisest,

who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing. And so I go about

the world, obedient to the god, and search and make enquiry into the wisdom of any

one, whether citizen or stranger, who appears to be wise; and if he is not wise, then in

vindication of the oracle I show him that he is not wise; and my occupation quite

absorbs me, and I have no time to give either to any public matter of interest or to any

concern of my own, but I am in utter poverty by reason of my devotion to the god.

There is another thing:—young men of the richer classes, who have not much to do,

come about me of their own accord; they like to hear the pretenders examined, and they

often imitate me, and proceed to examine others; there are plenty of persons, as they

quickly discover, who think that they know something, but really know little or nothing;

and then those who are examined by them instead of being angry with themselves are

angry with me: This confounded Socrates, they say; this villainous misleader of youth!—

and then if somebody asks them, Why, what evil does he practise or teach? they do not

know, and cannot tell; but in order that they may not appear to be at a loss, they repeat

the ready-made charges which are used against all philosophers about teaching things

up in the clouds and under the earth, and having no gods, and making the worse appear

the better cause; for they do not like to confess that their pretence of knowledge has

been detected— which is the truth; and as they are numerous and ambitious and

energetic, and are drawn up in battle array and have persuasive tongues, they have filled

your ears with their loud and inveterate calumnies. And this is the reason why my three

accusers, Meletus and Anytus and Lycon, have set upon me; Meletus, who has a quarrel

with me on behalf of the poets; Anytus, on behalf of the craftsmen and politicians;

Lycon, on behalf of the rhetoricians: and as I said at the beginning, I cannot expect to

get rid of such a mass of calumny all in a moment. And this, O men of Athens, is the

truth and the whole truth; I have concealed nothing, I have dissembled nothing. And

yet, I know that my plainness of speech makes them hate me, and what is their hatred

but a proof that I am speaking the truth?—Hence has arisen the prejudice against me;

and this is the reason of it, as you will find out either in this or in any future enquiry.

I have said enough in my defence against the first class of my accusers; I turn to the

second class. They are headed by Meletus, that good man and true lover of his country,

as he calls himself. Against these, too, I must try to make a defence:—Let their affidavit

be read: it contains something of this kind: It says that Socrates is a doer of evil, who

corrupts the youth; and who does not believe in the gods of the state, but has other new

divinities of his own. Such is the charge; and now let us examine the particular counts.

He says that I am a doer of evil, and corrupt the youth; but I say, O men of Athens, that

Meletus is a doer of evil, in that he pretends to be in earnest when he is only in jest, and

is so eager to bring men to trial from a pretended zeal and interest about matters in

which he really never had the smallest interest. And the truth of this I will endeavour to

prove to you.

Come hither, Meletus, and let me ask a question of you. You think a great deal about the

improvement of youth?

Yes, I do.

Tell the judges, then, who is their improver; for you must know, as you have taken the

pains to discover their corrupter, and are citing and accusing me before them. Speak,

then, and tell the judges who their improver is.—Observe, Meletus, that you are silent,

and have nothing to say. But is not this rather disgraceful, and a very considerable proof

of what I was saying, that you have no interest in the matter? Speak up, friend, and tell

us who their improver is.

The laws.

But that, my good sir, is not my meaning. I want to know who the person is, who, in the

first place, knows the laws.

The judges, Socrates, who are present in court.

What, do you mean to say, Meletus, that they are able to instruct and improve youth?

Certainly they are.

What, all of them, or some only and not others?

All of them.

By the goddess Here, that is good news! There are plenty of improvers, then. And what

do you say of the audience,—do they improve them?

Yes, they do.

And the senators?

Yes, the senators improve them.

But perhaps the members of the assembly corrupt them?—or do they too improve them?

They improve them.

Then every Athenian improves and elevates them; all with the exception of myself; and I

alone am their corrupter? Is that what you affirm?

That is what I stoutly affirm.

I am very unfortunate if you are right. But suppose I ask you a question: How about

horses? Does one man do them harm and all the world good? Is not the exact opposite

the truth? One man is able to do them good, or at least not many;—the trainer of horses,

that is to say, does them good, and others who have to do with them rather injure them?

Is not that true, Meletus, of horses, or of any other animals? Most assuredly it is;

whether you and Anytus say yes or no. Happy indeed would be the condition of youth if

they had one corrupter only, and all the rest of the world were their improvers. But you,

Meletus, have sufficiently shown that you never had a thought about the young: your

carelessness is seen in your not caring about the very things which you bring against me.

And now, Meletus, I will ask you another question—by Zeus I will: Which is better, to

live among bad citizens, or among good ones? Answer, friend, I say; the question is one

which may be easily answered. Do not the good do their neighbours good, and the bad

do them evil?

Certainly.

And is there anyone who would rather be injured than benefited by those who live with

him? Answer, my good friend, the law requires you to answer— does any one like to be

injured?

Certainly not.

And when you accuse me of corrupting and deteriorating the youth, do you allege that I

corrupt them intentionally or unintentionally?

Intentionally, I say.

But you have just admitted that the good do their neighbours good, and the evil do them

evil. Now, is that a truth which your superior wisdom has recognized thus early in life,

and am I, at my age, in such darkness and ignorance as not to know that if a man with

whom I have to live is corrupted by me, I am very likely to be harmed by him; and yet I

corrupt him, and intentionally, too—so you say, although neither I nor any other human

being is ever likely to be convinced by you. But either I do not corrupt them, or I corrupt

them unintentionally; and on either view of the case you lie. If my offence is

unintentional, the law has no cognizance of unintentional offences: you ought to have

taken me privately, and warned and admonished me; for if I had been better advised, I

should have left off doing what I only did unintentionally—no doubt I should; but you

would have nothing to say to me and refused to teach me. And now you bring me up in

this court, which is a place not of instruction, but of punishment.

It will be very clear to you, Athenians, as I was saying, that Meletus has no care at all,

great or small, about the matter. But still I should like to know, Meletus, in what I am

affirmed to corrupt the young. I suppose you mean, as I infer from your indictment, that

I teach them not to acknowledge the gods which the state acknowledges, but some other

new divinities or spiritual agencies in their stead. These are the lessons by which I

corrupt the youth, as you say.

Yes, that I say emphatically.

Then, by the gods, Meletus, of whom we are speaking, tell me and the court, in

somewhat plainer terms, what you mean! for I do not as yet understand whether you

affirm that I teach other men to acknowledge some gods, and therefore that I do believe

in gods, and am not an entire atheist—this you do not lay to my charge,—but only you

say that they are not the same gods which the city recognizes—the charge is that they are

different gods. Or, do you mean that I am an atheist simply, and a teacher of atheism?

I mean the latter—that you are a complete atheist.

What an extraordinary statement! Why do you think so, Meletus? Do you mean that I do

not believe in the godhead of the sun or moon, like other men?

I assure you, judges, that he does not: for he says that the sun is stone, and the moon

earth.

Friend Meletus, you think that you are accusing Anaxagoras: and you have but a bad

opinion of the judges, if you fancy them illiterate to such a degree as not to know that

these doctrines are found in the books of Anaxagoras the Clazomenian, which are full of

them. And so, forsooth, the youth are said to be taught them by Socrates, when there are

not unfrequently exhibitions of them at the theatre (Probably in allusion to

Aristophanes who caricatured, and to Euripides who borrowed the notions of

Anaxagoras, as well as to other dramatic poets.) (price of admission one drachma at the

most); and they might pay their money, and laugh at Socrates if he pretends to father

these extraordinary views. And so, Meletus, you really think that I do not believe in any

god?

I swear by Zeus that you believe absolutely in none at all.

Nobody will believe you, Meletus, and I am pretty sure that you do not believe yourself. I

cannot help thinking, men of Athens, that Meletus is reckless and impudent, and that he

has written this indictment in a spirit of mere wantonness and youthful bravado. Has he

not compounded a riddle, thinking to try me? He said to himself:—I shall see whether

the wise Socrates will discover my facetious contradiction, or whether I shall be able to

deceive him and the rest of them. For he certainly does appear to me to contradict

himself in the indictment as much as if he said that Socrates is guilty of not believing in

the gods, and yet of believing in them—but this is not like a person who is in earnest.

I should like you, O men of Athens, to join me in examining what I conceive to be his

inconsistency; and do you, Meletus, answer. And I must remind the audience of my

request that they would not make a disturbance if I speak in my accustomed manner:

Did ever man, Meletus, believe in the existence of human things, and not of human

beings?...I wish, men of Athens, that he would answer, and not be always trying to get

up an interruption. Did ever any man believe in horsemanship, and not in horses? or in

flute-playing, and not in flute-players? No, my friend; I will answer to you and to the

court, as you refuse to answer for yourself. There is no man who ever did. But now

please to answer the next question: Can a man believe in spiritual and divine agencies,

and not in spirits or demigods?

He cannot.

How lucky I am to have extracted that answer, by the assistance of the court! But then

you swear in the indictment that I teach and believe in divine or spiritual agencies (new

or old, no matter for that); at any rate, I believe in spiritual agencies,—so you say and

swear in the affidavit; and yet if I believe in divine beings, how can I help believing in

spirits or demigods;—must I not? To be sure I must; and therefore I may assume that

your silence gives consent. Now what are spirits or demigods? Are they not either gods

or the sons of gods?

Certainly they are.

But this is what I call the facetious riddle invented by you: the demigods or spirits are

gods, and you say first that I do not believe in gods, and then again that I do believe in

gods; that is, if I believe in demigods. For if the demigods are the illegitimate sons of

gods, whether by the nymphs or by any other mothers, of whom they are said to be the

sons—what human being will ever believe that there are no gods if they are the sons of

gods? You might as well affirm the existence of mules, and deny that of horses and

asses. Such nonsense, Meletus, could only have been intended by you to make trial of

me. You have put this into the indictment because you had nothing real of which to

accuse me. But no one who has a particle of understanding will ever be convinced by you

that the same men can believe in divine and superhuman things, and yet not believe that

there are gods and demigods and heroes.

I have said enough in answer to the charge of Meletus: any elaborate defence is

unnecessary, but I know only too well how many are the enmities which I have incurred,

and this is what will be my destruction if I am destroyed;—not Meletus, nor yet Anytus,

but the envy and detraction of the world, which has been the death of many good men,

and will probably be the death of many more; there is no danger of my being the last of

them.

Some one will say: And are you not ashamed, Socrates, of a course of life which is likely

to bring you to an untimely end? To him I may fairly answer: There you are mistaken: a

man who is good for anything ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he

ought only to consider whether in doing anything he is doing right or wrong—acting the

part of a good man or of a bad. Whereas, upon your view, the heroes who fell at Troy

were not good for much, and the son of Thetis above all, who altogether despised danger

in comparison with disgrace; and when he was so eager to slay Hector, his goddess

mother said to him, that if he avenged his companion Patroclus, and slew Hector, he

would die himself—'Fate,' she said, in these or the like words, 'waits for you next after

Hector;' he, receiving this warning, utterly despised danger and death, and instead of

fearing them, feared rather to live in dishonour, and not to avenge his friend. 'Let me die

forthwith,' he replies, 'and be avenged of my enemy, rather than abide here by the

beaked ships, a laughing-stock and a burden of the earth.' Had Achilles any thought of

death and danger? For wherever a man's place is, whether the place which he has

chosen or that in which he has been placed by a commander, there he ought to remain

in the hour of danger; he should not think of death or of anything but of disgrace. And

this, O men of Athens, is a true saying.

Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of Athens, if I who, when I was ordered

by the generals whom you chose to command me at Potidaea and Amphipolis and

Delium, remained where they placed me, like any other man, facing death—if now,

when, as I conceive and imagine, God orders me to fulfil the philosopher's mission of

searching into myself and other men, I were to desert my post through fear of death, or

any other fear; that would indeed be strange, and I might justly be arraigned in court for

denying the existence of the gods, if I disobeyed the oracle because I was afraid of death,

fancying that I was wise when I was not wise. For the fear of death is indeed the

pretence of wisdom, and not real wisdom, being a pretence of knowing the unknown;

and no one knows whether death, which men in their fear apprehend to be the greatest

evil, may not be the greatest good. Is not this ignorance of a disgraceful sort, the

ignorance which is the conceit that a man knows what he does not know? And in this

respect only I believe myself to differ from men in general, and may perhaps claim to be

wiser than they are:—that whereas I know but little of the world below, I do not suppose

that I know: but I do know that injustice and disobedience to a better, whether God or

man, is evil and dishonourable, and I will never fear or avoid a possible good rather than

a certain evil. And therefore if you let me go now, and are not convinced by Anytus, who

said that since I had been prosecuted I must be put to death; (or if not that I ought never

to have been prosecuted at all); and that if I escape now, your sons will all be utterly

ruined by listening to my words—if you say to me, Socrates, this time we will not mind

Anytus, and you shall be let off, but upon one condition, that you are not to enquire and

speculate in this way any more, and that if you are caught doing so again you shall die;—

if this was the condition on which you let me go, I should reply: Men of Athens, I honour

and love you; but I shall obey God rather than you, and while I have life and strength I

shall never cease from the practice and teaching of philosophy, exhorting any one whom

I meet and saying to him after my manner: You, my friend,—a citizen of the great and

mighty and wise city of Athens,—are you not ashamed of heaping up the greatest

amount of money and honour and reputation, and caring so little about wisdom and

truth and the greatest improvement of the soul, which you never regard or heed at all?

And if the person with whom I am arguing, says: Yes, but I do care; then I do not leave

him or let him go at once; but I proceed to interrogate and examine and cross-examine

him, and if I think that he has no virtue in him, but only says that he has, I reproach him

with undervaluing the greater, and overvaluing the less. And I shall repeat the same

words to every one whom I meet, young and old, citizen and alien, but especially to the

citizens, inasmuch as they are my brethren. For know that this is the command of God;

and I believe that no greater good has ever happened in the state than my service to the

God. For I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, not to take

thought for your persons or your properties, but first and chiefly to care about the

greatest improvement of the soul. I tell you that virtue is not given by money, but that

from virtue comes money and every other good of man, public as well as private. This is

my teaching, and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the youth, I am a mischievous

person. But if any one says that this is not my teaching, he is speaking an untruth.

Wherefore, O men of Athens, I say to you, do as Anytus bids or not as Anytus bids, and

either acquit me or not; but whichever you do, understand that I shall never alter my

ways, not even if I have to die many times.

Men of Athens, do not interrupt, but hear me; there was an understanding between us

that you should hear me to the end: I have something more to say, at which you may be

inclined to cry out; but I believe that to hear me will be good for you, and therefore I beg

that you will not cry out. I would have you know, that if you kill such an one as I am, you

will injure yourselves more than you will injure me. Nothing will injure me, not Meletus

nor yet Anytus—they cannot, for a bad man is not permitted to injure a better than

himself. I do not deny that Anytus may, perhaps, kill him, or drive him into exile, or

deprive him of civil rights; and he may imagine, and others may imagine, that he is

inflicting a great injury upon him: but there I do not agree. For the evil of doing as he is

doing—the evil of unjustly taking away the life of another—is greater far.

And now, Athenians, I am not going to argue for my own sake, as you may think, but for

yours, that you may not sin against the God by condemning me, who am his gift to you.

For if you kill me you will not easily find a successor to me, who, if I may use such a

ludicrous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given to the state by God; and the state is

a great and noble steed who is tardy in his motions owing to his very size, and requires

to be stirred into life. I am that gadfly which God has attached to the state, and all day

long and in all places am always fastening upon you, arousing and persuading and

reproaching you. You will not easily find another like me, and therefore I would advise

you to spare me. I dare say that you may feel out of temper (like a person who is

suddenly awakened from sleep), and you think that you might easily strike me dead as

Anytus advises, and then you would sleep on for the remainder of your lives, unless God

in his care of you sent you another gadfly. When I say that I am given to you by God, the

proof of my mission is this:—if I had been like other men, I should not have neglected all

my own concerns or patiently seen the neglect of them during all these years, and have

been doing yours, coming to you individually like a father or elder brother, exhorting

you to regard virtue; such conduct, I say, would be unlike human nature. If I had gained

anything, or if my exhortations had been paid, there would have been some sense in my

doing so; but now, as you will perceive, not even the impudence of my accusers dares to

say that I have ever exacted or sought pay of any one; of that they have no witness. And I

have a sufficient witness to the truth of what I say—my poverty.

Some one may wonder why I go about in private giving advice and busying myself with

the concerns of others, but do not venture to come forward in public and advise the

state. I will tell you why. You have heard me speak at sundry times and in divers places

of an oracle or sign which comes to me, and is the divinity which Meletus ridicules in the

indictment. This sign, which is a kind of voice, first began to come to me when I was a

child; it always forbids but never commands me to do anything which I am going to do.

This is what deters me from being a politician. And rightly, as I think. For I am certain,

O men of Athens, that if I had engaged in politics, I should have perished long ago, and

done no good either to you or to myself. And do not be offended at my telling you the

truth: for the truth is, that no man who goes to war with you or any other multitude,

honestly striving against the many lawless and unrighteous deeds which are done in a

state, will save his life; he who will fight for the right, if he would live even for a brief

space, must have a private station and not a public one.

I can give you convincing evidence of what I say, not words only, but what you value far

more—actions. Let me relate to you a passage of my own life which will prove to you that

I should never have yielded to injustice from any fear of death, and that 'as I should have

refused to yield' I must have died at once. I will tell you a tale of the courts, not very

interesting perhaps, but nevertheless true. The only office of state which I ever held, O

men of Athens, was that of senator: the tribe Antiochis, which is my tribe, had the

presidency at the trial of the generals who had not taken up the bodies of the slain after

the battle of Arginusae; and you proposed to try them in a body, contrary to law, as you

all thought afterwards; but at the time I was the only one of the Prytanes who was

opposed to the illegality, and I gave my vote against you; and when the orators

threatened to impeach and arrest me, and you called and shouted, I made up my mind

that I would run the risk, having law and justice with me, rather than take part in your

injustice because I feared imprisonment and death. This happened in the days of the

democracy. But when the oligarchy of the Thirty was in power, they sent for me and four

others into the rotunda, and bade us bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamis, as they

wanted to put him to death. This was a specimen of the sort of commands which they

were always giving with the view of implicating as many as possible in their crimes; and

then I showed, not in word only but in deed, that, if I may be allowed to use such an

expression, I cared not a straw for death, and that my great and only care was lest I

should do an unrighteous or unholy thing. For the strong arm of that oppressive power

did not frighten me into doing wrong; and when we came out of the rotunda the other

four went to Salamis and fetched Leon, but I went quietly home. For which I might have

lost my life, had not the power of the Thirty shortly afterwards come to an end. And

many will witness to my words.

Now do you really imagine that I could have survived all these years, if I had led a public

life, supposing that like a good man I had always maintained the right and had made

justice, as I ought, the first thing? No indeed, men of Athens, neither I nor any other

man. But I have been always the same in all my actions, public as well as private, and

never have I yielded any base compliance to those who are slanderously termed my

disciples, or to any other. Not that I have any regular disciples. But if any one likes to

come and hear me while I am pursuing my mission, whether he be young or old, he is

not excluded. Nor do I converse only with those who pay; but any one, whether he be

rich or poor, may ask and answer me and listen to my words; and whether he turns out

to be a bad man or a good one, neither result can be justly imputed to me; for I never

taught or professed to teach him anything. And if any one says that he has ever learned

or heard anything from me in private which all the world has not heard, let me tell you

that he is lying.

But I shall be asked, Why do people delight in continually conversing with you? I have

told you already, Athenians, the whole truth about this matter: they like to hear the

cross-examination of the pretenders to wisdom; there is amusement in it. Now this duty

of cross-examining other men has been imposed upon me by God; and has been

signified to me by oracles, visions, and in every way in which the will of divine power

was ever intimated to any one. This is true, O Athenians, or, if not true, would be soon

refuted. If I am or have been corrupting the youth, those of them who are now grown up

and have become sensible that I gave them bad advice in the days of their youth should

come forward as accusers, and take their revenge; or if they do not like to come

themselves, some of their relatives, fathers, brothers, or other kinsmen, should say what

evil their families have suffered at my hands. Now is their time. Many of them I see in

the court. There is Crito, who is of the same age and of the same deme with myself, and

there is Critobulus his son, whom I also see. Then again there is Lysanias of Sphettus,

who is the father of Aeschines—he is present; and also there is Antiphon of Cephisus,

who is the father of Epigenes; and there are the brothers of several who have associated

with me. There is Nicostratus the son of Theosdotides, and the brother of Theodotus

(now Theodotus himself is dead, and therefore he, at any rate, will not seek to stop him);

and there is Paralus the son of Demodocus, who had a brother Theages; and

Adeimantus the son of Ariston, whose brother Plato is present; and Aeantodorus, who is

the brother of Apollodorus, whom I also see. I might mention a great many others, some

of whom Meletus should have produced as witnesses in the course of his speech; and let

him still produce them, if he has forgotten—I will make way for him. And let him say, if

he has any testimony of the sort which he can produce. Nay, Athenians, the very

opposite is the truth. For all these are ready to witness on behalf of the corrupter, of the

injurer of their kindred, as Meletus and Anytus call me; not the corrupted youth only—

there might have been a motive for that—but their uncorrupted elder relatives. Why

should they too support me with their testimony? Why, indeed, except for the sake of

truth and justice, and because they know that I am speaking the truth, and that Meletus

is a liar.

Well, Athenians, this and the like of this is all the defence which I have to offer. Yet a

word more. Perhaps there may be some one who is offended at me, when he calls to

mind how he himself on a similar, or even a less serious occasion, prayed and entreated

the judges with many tears, and how he produced his children in court, which was a

moving spectacle, together with a host of relations and friends; whereas I, who am

probably in danger of my life, will do none of these things. The contrast may occur to his

mind, and he may be set against me, and vote in anger because he is displeased at me on

this account. Now if there be such a person among you,—mind, I do not say that there

is,—to him I may fairly reply: My friend, I am a man, and like other men, a creature of

flesh and blood, and not 'of wood or stone,' as Homer says; and I have a family, yes, and

sons, O Athenians, three in number, one almost a man, and two others who are still

young; and yet I will not bring any of them hither in order to petition you for an

acquittal. And why not? Not from any self-assertion or want of respect for you. Whether

I am or am not afraid of death is another question, of which I will not now speak. But,

having regard to public opinion, I feel that such conduct would be discreditable to

myself, and to you, and to the whole state. One who has reached my years, and who has

a name for wisdom, ought not to demean himself. Whether this opinion of me be

deserved or not, at any rate the world has decided that Socrates is in some way superior

to other men. And if those among you who are said to be superior in wisdom and

courage, and any other virtue, demean themselves in this way, how shameful is their

conduct! I have seen men of reputation, when they have been condemned, behaving in

the strangest manner: they seemed to fancy that they were going to suffer something

dreadful if they died, and that they could be immortal if you only allowed them to live;

and I think that such are a dishonour to the state, and that any stranger coming in

would have said of them that the most eminent men of Athens, to whom the Athenians

themselves give honour and command, are no better than women. And I say that these

things ought not to be done by those of us who have a reputation; and if they are done,

you ought not to permit them; you ought rather to show that you are far more disposed

to condemn the man who gets up a doleful scene and makes the city ridiculous, than

him who holds his peace.

But, setting aside the question of public opinion, there seems to be something wrong in

asking a favour of a judge, and thus procuring an acquittal, instead of informing and

convincing him. For his duty is, not to make a present of justice, but to give judgment;

and he has sworn that he will judge according to the laws, and not according to his own

good pleasure; and we ought not to encourage you, nor should you allow yourselves to

be encouraged, in this habit of perjury—there can be no piety in that. Do not then

require me to do what I consider dishonourable and impious and wrong, especially now,

when I am being tried for impiety on the indictment of Meletus. For if, O men of Athens,

by force of persuasion and entreaty I could overpower your oaths, then I should be

teaching you to believe that there are no gods, and in defending should simply convict

myself of the charge of not believing in them. But that is not so—far otherwise. For I do

believe that there are gods, and in a sense higher than that in which any of my accusers

believe in them. And to you and to God I commit my cause, to be determined by you as

is best for you and me.

...

There are many reasons why I am not grieved, O men of Athens, at the vote of

condemnation. I expected it, and am only surprised that the votes are so nearly equal;

for I had thought that the majority against me would have been far larger; but now, had

thirty votes gone over to the other side, I should have been acquitted. And I may say, I

think, that I have escaped Meletus. I may say more; for without the assistance of Anytus

and Lycon, any one may see that he would not have had a fifth part of the votes, as the

law requires, in which case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand drachmae.

And so he proposes death as the penalty. And what shall I propose on my part, O men of

Athens? Clearly that which is my due. And what is my due? What return shall be made

to the man who has never had the wit to be idle during his whole life; but has been

careless of what the many care for— wealth, and family interests, and military offices,

and speaking in the assembly, and magistracies, and plots, and parties. Reflecting that I

was really too honest a man to be a politician and live, I did not go where I could do no

good to you or to myself; but where I could do the greatest good privately to every one of

you, thither I went, and sought to persuade every man among you that he must look to

himself, and seek virtue and wisdom before he looks to his private interests, and look to

the state before he looks to the interests of the state; and that this should be the order

which he observes in all his actions. What shall be done to such an one? Doubtless some

good thing, O men of Athens, if he has his reward; and the good should be of a kind

suitable to him. What would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is your benefactor,

and who desires leisure that he may instruct you? There can be no reward so fitting as

maintenance in the Prytaneum, O men of Athens, a reward which he deserves far more

than the citizen who has won the prize at Olympia in the horse or chariot race, whether

the chariots were drawn by two horses or by many. For I am in want, and he has

enough; and he only gives you the appearance of happiness, and I give you the reality.

And if I am to estimate the penalty fairly, I should say that maintenance in the

Prytaneum is the just return.

Perhaps you think that I am braving you in what I am saying now, as in what I said

before about the tears and prayers. But this is not so. I speak rather because I am

convinced that I never intentionally wronged any one, although I cannot convince you—

the time has been too short; if there were a law at Athens, as there is in other cities, that

a capital cause should not be decided in one day, then I believe that I should have

convinced you. But I cannot in a moment refute great slanders; and, as I am convinced

that I never wronged another, I will assuredly not wrong myself. I will not say of myself

that I deserve any evil, or propose any penalty. Why should I? because I am afraid of the

penalty of death which Meletus proposes? When I do not know whether death is a good

or an evil, why should I propose a penalty which would certainly be an evil? Shall I say

imprisonment? And why should I live in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates of

the year—of the Eleven? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment until the fine

is paid? There is the same objection. I should have to lie in prison, for money I have

none, and cannot pay. And if I say exile (and this may possibly be the penalty which you

will affix), I must indeed be blinded by the love of life, if I am so irrational as to expect

that when you, who are my own citizens, cannot endure my discourses and words, and

have found them so grievous and odious that you will have no more of them, others are

likely to endure me. No indeed, men of Athens, that is not very likely. And what a life

should I lead, at my age, wandering from city to city, ever changing my place of exile,

and always being driven out! For I am quite sure that wherever I go, there, as here, the

young men will flock to me; and if I drive them away, their elders will drive me out at

their request; and if I let them come, their fathers and friends will drive me out for their

sakes.

Some one will say: Yes, Socrates, but cannot you hold your tongue, and then you may go

into a foreign city, and no one will interfere with you? Now I have great difficulty in

making you understand my answer to this. For if I tell you that to do as you say would be

a disobedience to the God, and therefore that I cannot hold my tongue, you will not

believe that I am serious; and if I say again that daily to discourse about virtue, and of

those other things about which you hear me examining myself and others, is the greatest

good of man, and that the unexamined life is not worth living, you are still less likely to

believe me. Yet I say what is true, although a thing of which it is hard for me to persuade

you. Also, I have never been accustomed to think that I deserve to suffer any harm. Had

I money I might have estimated the offence at what I was able to pay, and not have been

much the worse. But I have none, and therefore I must ask you to proportion the fine to

my means. Well, perhaps I could afford a mina, and therefore I propose that penalty:

Plato, Crito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus, my friends here, bid me say thirty minae, and

they will be the sureties. Let thirty minae be the penalty; for which sum they will be

ample security to you.

...

Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil name which you will

get from the detractors of the city, who will say that you killed Socrates, a wise man; for

they will call me wise, even although I am not wise, when they want to reproach you. If

you had waited a little while, your desire would have been fulfilled in the course of

nature. For I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive, and not far from death. I

am speaking now not to all of you, but only to those who have condemned me to death.

And I have another thing to say to them: you think that I was convicted because I had no

words of the sort which would have procured my acquittal—I mean, if I had thought fit

to leave nothing undone or unsaid. Not so; the deficiency which led to my conviction

was not of words— certainly not. But I had not the boldness or impudence or inclination

to address you as you would have liked me to do, weeping and wailing and lamenting,

and saying and doing many things which you have been accustomed to hear from

others, and which, as I maintain, are unworthy of me. I thought at the time that I ought

not to do anything common or mean when in danger: nor do I now repent of the style of

my defence; I would rather die having spoken after my manner, than speak in your

manner and live. For neither in war nor yet at law ought I or any man to use every way

of escaping death. Often in battle there can be no doubt that if a man will throw away his

arms, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape death; and in other

dangers there are other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do

anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not to avoid death, but to avoid unrighteousness;

for that runs faster than death. I am old and move slowly, and the slower runner has

overtaken me, and my accusers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is

unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And now I depart hence condemned by you to

suffer the penalty of death,—they too go their ways condemned by the truth to suffer the

penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by my award—let them abide by theirs. I

suppose that these things may be regarded as fated,—and I think that they are well.

And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to you; for I am about

to die, and in the hour of death men are gifted with prophetic power. And I prophesy to

you who are my murderers, that immediately after my departure punishment far heavier

than you have inflicted on me will surely await you. Me you have killed because you

wanted to escape the accuser, and not to give an account of your lives. But that will not

be as you suppose: far otherwise. For I say that there will be more accusers of you than

there are now; accusers whom hitherto I have restrained: and as they are younger they

will be more inconsiderate with you, and you will be more offended at them. If you think

that by killing men you can prevent some one from censuring your evil lives, you are

mistaken; that is not a way of escape which is either possible or honourable; the easiest

and the noblest way is not to be disabling others, but to be improving yourselves. This is

the prophecy which I utter before my departure to the judges who have condemned me.

Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with you about the thing

which has come to pass, while the magistrates are busy, and before I go to the place at

which I must die. Stay then a little, for we may as well talk with one another while there

is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this event

which has happened to me. O my judges—for you I may truly call judges—I should like

to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the divine faculty of which the internal

oracle is the source has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, if

I was going to make a slip or error in any matter; and now as you see there has come

upon me that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst

evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either when I was leaving my house in

the morning, or when I was on my way to the court, or while I was speaking, at anything

which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech,

but now in nothing I either said or did touching the matter in hand has the oracle

opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this silence? I will tell you. It is an

intimation that what has happened to me is a good, and that those of us who think that

death is an evil are in error. For the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I

been going to evil and not to good.

Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that

death is a good; for one of two things—either death is a state of nothingness and utter

unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this

world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the

sleep of him who is undisturbed even by dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For

if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams,

and were to compare with this the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell

us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more

pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the

great king will not find many such days or nights, when compared with the others. Now

if death be of such a nature, I say that to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single

night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all the dead

abide, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? If indeed when the

pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice in this

world, and finds the true judges who are said to give judgment there, Minos and

Rhadamanthus and Aeacus and Triptolemus, and other sons of God who were righteous

in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he

might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true,

let me die again and again. I myself, too, shall have a wonderful interest in there

meeting and conversing with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and any other

ancient hero who has suffered death through an unjust judgment; and there will be no

small pleasure, as I think, in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall

then be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, so

also in the next; and I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise, and is

not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be able to examine the leader of the great

Trojan expedition; or Odysseus or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men and women too!

What infinite delight would there be in conversing with them and asking them

questions! In another world they do not put a man to death for asking questions:

assuredly not. For besides being happier than we are, they will be immortal, if what is

said is true.

Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know of a certainty, that no evil

can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. He and his are not neglected by

the gods; nor has my own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly

that the time had arrived when it was better for me to die and be released from trouble;

wherefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason, also, I am not angry with my

condemners, or with my accusers; they have done me no harm, although they did not

mean to do me any good; and for this I may gently blame them.

Still I have a favour to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I would ask you, O my

friends, to punish them; and I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if

they seem to care about riches, or anything, more than about virtue; or if they pretend to

be something when they are really nothing,—then reprove them, as I have reproved you,

for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and thinking that they are

something when they are really nothing. And if you do this, both I and my sons will have

received justice at your hands.

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which

is better God only knows.

CRITO

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Crito.

SCENE: The Prison of Socrates.

SOCRATES: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early.

CRITO: Yes, certainly.

SOCRATES: What is the exact time?

CRITO: The dawn is breaking.

SOCRATES: I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in.

CRITO: He knows me because I often come, Socrates; moreover. I have done him a

kindness.

SOCRATES: And are you only just arrived?

CRITO: No, I came some time ago.

SOCRATES: Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me?

CRITO: I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest

as you are—indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful

slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the

pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see

anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity.

SOCRATES: Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at

the approach of death.

CRITO: And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not

prevent them from repining.

SOCRATES: That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour.

CRITO: I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to

yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me.

SOCRATES: What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die?

CRITO: No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as

persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore

to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life.

SOCRATES: Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that

there will be a delay of a day.

CRITO: Why do you think so?

SOCRATES: I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship?

CRITO: Yes; that is what the authorities say.

SOCRATES: But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer

from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately

allowed me to sleep.

CRITO: And what was the nature of the vision?

SOCRATES: There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in

bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates,

'The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go.' (Homer, Il.)

CRITO: What a singular dream, Socrates!

SOCRATES: There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think.

CRITO: Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat

you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend

who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and

me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I

did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this—that I should be thought to

value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I

wanted you to escape, and that you refused.

SOCRATES: But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many?

Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these

things truly as they occurred.

CRITO: But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what

is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their

good opinion.

SOCRATES: I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil;

for then they would also be able to do the greatest good— and what a fine thing this

would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or

foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance.

CRITO: Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are

not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you

escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you

away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil

may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you,

we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say.

SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only

one.

CRITO: Fear not—there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great

cost; and as for the informers they are far from being exorbitant in their demands—a

little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service,

and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you

the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of

money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their

money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do

not say, as you did in the court (compare Apol.), that you will have a difficulty in

knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to

which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you

like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any

trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life

when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies,

who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting

your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you

go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet

with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring

children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and

education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier,

which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his

actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your

friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of

courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently;

and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence

and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you

might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad

and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or

rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is

only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will

be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by

me, and do as I say.

SOCRATES: Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater

the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or

shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be

guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to

be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own

words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and

unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with

you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments,

confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors (compare

Apol.). What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your

old argument about the opinions of men?—we were saying that some of them are to be

regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was

condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the

sake of talking—mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help,

Crito:—whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any

way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as

I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying,

that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded.

Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow—at least, there is no human probability

of this, and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the

circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that

some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other

opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was

right in maintaining this?

CRITO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: The good are to be regarded, and not the bad?

CRITO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are

evil?

CRITO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself

to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of

every man, or of one man only—his physician or trainer, whoever he may be?

CRITO: Of one man only.

SOCRATES: And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only,

and not of the many?

CRITO: Clearly so.

SOCRATES: And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems

good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion

of all other men put together?

CRITO: True.

SOCRATES: And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and

regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil?

CRITO: Certainly he will.

SOCRATES: And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the

disobedient person?

CRITO: Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil.

SOCRATES: Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not

separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil,

which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the

many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we

not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him

shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be

improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;—there is such a principle?

CRITO: Certainly there is, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Take a parallel instance:—if, acting under the advice of those who have no

understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by

disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is—the body?

CRITO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body?

CRITO: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed,

which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle,

whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to

the body?

CRITO: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: More honourable than the body?

CRITO: Far more.

SOCRATES: Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he,

the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will

say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion

of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable.—'Well,'

some one will say, 'but the many can kill us.'

CRITO: Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer.

SOCRATES: And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is

unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another

proposition—that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued?

CRITO: Yes, that also remains unshaken.

SOCRATES: And a good life is equivalent to a just and honorable one—that holds also?

CRITO: Yes, it does.

SOCRATES: From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or

ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly

right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other

considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of

educating one's children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be

as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death—and

with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only

question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in

escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and

thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any

other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into

the calculation.

CRITO: I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed?

SOCRATES: Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can,

and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought

to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to

persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment. And

now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me.

CRITO: I will.

SOCRATES: Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one

way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always

evil and dishonorable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged

by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown

away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life

long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of

the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the

truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who

acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not?

CRITO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then we must do no wrong?

CRITO: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure

no one at all? (E.g. compare Rep.)

CRITO: Clearly not.

SOCRATES: Again, Crito, may we do evil?

CRITO: Surely not, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the

many—is that just or not?

CRITO: Not just.

SOCRATES: For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him?

CRITO: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever

evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you

really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be

held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who

are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one

another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and

assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil

is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and

dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of

another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same

mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step.

CRITO: You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind.

SOCRATES: Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a

question:—Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the

right?

CRITO: He ought to do what he thinks right.

SOCRATES: But if this is true, what is the application? In leaving the prison against the

will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least

to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just—

what do you say?

CRITO: I cannot tell, Socrates, for I do not know.

SOCRATES: Then consider the matter in this way:—Imagine that I am about to play

truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the

government come and interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you about?

are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us—the laws, and the whole state, as far

as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which

the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?'

What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a

rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to

be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply,

'Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' Suppose I say that?

CRITO: Very good, Socrates.

SOCRATES: 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would answer; 'or were you

to abide by the sentence of the state?' And if I were to express my astonishment at their

words, the law would probably add: 'Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes—

you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,—What complaint have

you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In

the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by

our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us

who regulate marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us who after birth

regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were

not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to

train you in music and gymnastic?' Right, I should reply. 'Well then, since you were

brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place

that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you

are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what

we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to

your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by

him, or received some other evil at his hands?—you would not say this? And because we

think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return,

and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that

you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is

more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and

more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be

soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and

either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by

her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence;

and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may

any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in

any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change

their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less

may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the

laws speak truly, or do they not?

CRITO: I think that they do.

SOCRATES: Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in

your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the

world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in

every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty

which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen

the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take

his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who

does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city,

may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner

in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an

implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we

maintain, thrice wrong: first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents;

secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an

agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor

convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give

him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;—that is what we offer, and he does

neither.

'These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be

exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose

now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above

all other men have acknowledged the agreement. 'There is clear proof,' they will say,

'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have

been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be

supposed to love (compare Phaedr.). For you never went out of the city either to see the

games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when

you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any

curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our

state; we were your especial favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you;

and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction.

Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at

banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But

you pretended that you preferred death to exile (compare Apol.), and that you were not

unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect

to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave

would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements

which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in

saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is

that true or not?' How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent?

CRITO: We cannot help it, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then will they not say: 'You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and

agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any

compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during

which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our

covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone

either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good

government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other

Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who

would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt,

the blind, the maimed, were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run

away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not

make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city.

'For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do

either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and

deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself,

if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of

which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their

government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as

a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of

their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely

to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from

well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or

will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to

them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the

best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away

from well-governed states to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder

and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with

ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some

other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no

one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred

laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a

good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will

live, but how?—as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?—

eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner.

And where will be your fine sentiments about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to

live for the sake of your children—you want to bring them up and educate them—will

you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the

benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will

be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them;

for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of

Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that

they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for

anything, they will—to be sure they will.

'Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children

first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the

princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or

holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart

in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But

if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and

agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of

all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry

with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you

as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then,

to us and not to Crito.'

This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound

of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and

prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say

will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say.

CRITO: I have nothing to say, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he

leads.

CHARMIDES, OR TEMPERANCE

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator, Charmides, Chaerephon,

Critias.

SCENE: The Palaestra of Taureas, which is near the Porch of the King Archon.

Yesterday evening I returned from the army at Potidaea, and having been a good while

away, I thought that I should like to go and look at my old haunts. So I went into the

palaestra of Taureas, which is over against the temple adjoining the porch of the King

Archon, and there I found a number of persons, most of whom I knew, but not all. My

visit was unexpected, and no sooner did they see me entering than they saluted me from

afar on all sides; and Chaerephon, who is a kind of madman, started up and ran to me,

seizing my hand, and saying, How did you escape, Socrates?—(I should explain that an

engagement had taken place at Potidaea not long before we came away, of which the

news had only just reached Athens.)

You see, I replied, that here I am.

There was a report, he said, that the engagement was very severe, and that many of our

acquaintance had fallen.

That, I replied, was not far from the truth.

I suppose, he said, that you were present.

I was.

Then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we have only heard imperfectly.

I took the place which he assigned to me, by the side of Critias the son of Callaeschrus,

and when I had saluted him and the rest of the company, I told them the news from the

army, and answered their several enquiries.

Then, when there had been enough of this, I, in my turn, began to make enquiries about

matters at home—about the present state of philosophy, and about the youth. I asked

whether any of them were remarkable for wisdom or beauty, or both. Critias, glancing at

the door, invited my attention to some youths who were coming in, and talking noisily to

one another, followed by a crowd. Of the beauties, Socrates, he said, I fancy that you will

soon be able to form a judgment. For those who are just entering are the advanced guard

of the great beauty, as he is thought to be, of the day, and he is likely to be not far off

himself.

Who is he, I said; and who is his father?

Charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my cousin, and the son of my uncle Glaucon: I

rather think that you know him too, although he was not grown up at the time of your

departure.

Certainly, I know him, I said, for he was remarkable even then when he was still a child,

and I should imagine that by this time he must be almost a young man.

You will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made and what he is like. He

had scarcely said the word, when Charmides entered.

Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything, and of the beautiful, I am

simply such a measure as a white line is of chalk; for almost all young persons appear to

be beautiful in my eyes. But at that moment, when I saw him coming in, I confess that I

was quite astonished at his beauty and stature; all the world seemed to be enamoured of

him; amazement and confusion reigned when he entered; and a troop of lovers followed

him. That grown-up men like ourselves should have been affected in this way was not

surprising, but I observed that there was the same feeling among the boys; all of them,

down to the very least child, turned and looked at him, as if he had been a statue.

Chaerephon called me and said: What do you think of him, Socrates? Has he not a

beautiful face?

Most beautiful, I said.

But you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you could see his naked form: he is

absolutely perfect.

And to this they all agreed.

By Heracles, I said, there never was such a paragon, if he has only one other slight

addition.

What is that? said Critias.

If he has a noble soul; and being of your house, Critias, he may be expected to have this.

He is as fair and good within, as he is without, replied Critias.

Then, before we see his body, should we not ask him to show us his soul, naked and

undisguised? he is just of an age at which he will like to talk.

That he will, said Critias, and I can tell you that he is a philosopher already, and also a

considerable poet, not in his own opinion only, but in that of others.

That, my dear Critias, I replied, is a distinction which has long been in your family, and

is inherited by you from Solon. But why do you not call him, and show him to us? for

even if he were younger than he is, there could be no impropriety in his talking to us in

the presence of you, who are his guardian and cousin.

Very well, he said; then I will call him; and turning to the attendant, he said, Call

Charmides, and tell him that I want him to come and see a physician about the illness of

which he spoke to me the day before yesterday. Then again addressing me, he added: He

has been complaining lately of having a headache when he rises in the morning: now

why should you not make him believe that you know a cure for the headache?

Why not, I said; but will he come?

He will be sure to come, he replied.

He came as he was bidden, and sat down between Critias and me. Great amusement was

occasioned by every one pushing with might and main at his neighbour in order to make

a place for him next to themselves, until at the two ends of the row one had to get up and

the other was rolled over sideways. Now I, my friend, was beginning to feel awkward;

my former bold belief in my powers of conversing with him had vanished. And when

Critias told him that I was the person who had the cure, he looked at me in such an

indescribable manner, and was just going to ask a question. And at that moment all the

people in the palaestra crowded about us, and, O rare! I caught a sight of the inwards of

his garment, and took the flame. Then I could no longer contain myself. I thought how

well Cydias understood the nature of love, when, in speaking of a fair youth, he warns

some one 'not to bring the fawn in the sight of the lion to be devoured by him,' for I felt

that I had been overcome by a sort of wild-beast appetite. But I controlled myself, and

when he asked me if I knew the cure of the headache, I answered, but with an effort, that

I did know.

And what is it? he said.

I replied that it was a kind of leaf, which required to be accompanied by a charm, and if

a person would repeat the charm at the same time that he used the cure, he would be

made whole; but that without the charm the leaf would be of no avail.

Then I will write out the charm from your dictation, he said.

With my consent? I said, or without my consent?

With your consent, Socrates, he said, laughing.

Very good, I said; and are you quite sure that you know my name?

I ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal said about you among my

companions; and I remember when I was a child seeing you in company with my cousin

Critias.

I am glad to find that you remember me, I said; for I shall now be more at home with

you and shall be better able to explain the nature of the charm, about which I felt a

difficulty before. For the charm will do more, Charmides, than only cure the headache. I

dare say that you have heard eminent physicians say to a patient who comes to them

with bad eyes, that they cannot cure his eyes by themselves, but that if his eyes are to be

cured, his head must be treated; and then again they say that to think of curing the head

alone, and not the rest of the body also, is the height of folly. And arguing in this way

they apply their methods to the whole body, and try to treat and heal the whole and the

part together. Did you ever observe that this is what they say?

Yes, he said.

And they are right, and you would agree with them?

Yes, he said, certainly I should.

His approving answers reassured me, and I began by degrees to regain confidence, and

the vital heat returned. Such, Charmides, I said, is the nature of the charm, which I

learned when serving with the army from one of the physicians of the Thracian king

Zamolxis, who are said to be so skilful that they can even give immortality. This

Thracian told me that in these notions of theirs, which I was just now mentioning, the

Greek physicians are quite right as far as they go; but Zamolxis, he added, our king, who

is also a god, says further, 'that as you ought not to attempt to cure the eyes without the

head, or the head without the body, so neither ought you to attempt to cure the body

without the soul; and this,' he said, 'is the reason why the cure of many diseases is

unknown to the physicians of Hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole, which

ought to be studied also; for the part can never be well unless the whole is well.' For all

good and evil, whether in the body or in human nature, originates, as he declared, in the

soul, and overflows from thence, as if from the head into the eyes. And therefore if the

head and body are to be well, you must begin by curing the soul; that is the first thing.

And the cure, my dear youth, has to be effected by the use of certain charms, and these

charms are fair words; and by them temperance is implanted in the soul, and where

temperance is, there health is speedily imparted, not only to the head, but to the whole

body. And he who taught me the cure and the charm at the same time added a special

direction: 'Let no one,' he said, 'persuade you to cure the head, until he has first given

you his soul to be cured by the charm. For this,' he said, 'is the great error of our day in

the treatment of the human body, that physicians separate the soul from the body.' And

he added with emphasis, at the same time making me swear to his words, 'Let no one,

however rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him the cure, without the charm.'

Now I have sworn, and I must keep my oath, and therefore if you will allow me to apply

the Thracian charm first to your soul, as the stranger directed, I will afterwards proceed

to apply the cure to your head. But if not, I do not know what I am to do with you, my

dear Charmides.

Critias, when he heard this, said: The headache will be an unexpected gain to my young

relation, if the pain in his head compels him to improve his mind: and I can tell you,

Socrates, that Charmides is not only pre-eminent in beauty among his equals, but also in

that quality which is given by the charm; and this, as you say, is temperance?

Yes, I said.

Then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human beings, and for his age

inferior to none in any quality.

Yes, I said, Charmides; and indeed I think that you ought to excel others in all good

qualities; for if I am not mistaken there is no one present who could easily point out two

Athenian houses, whose union would be likely to produce a better or nobler scion than

the two from which you are sprung. There is your father's house, which is descended

from Critias the son of Dropidas, whose family has been commemorated in the

panegyrical verses of Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets, as famous for beauty and

virtue and all other high fortune: and your mother's house is equally distinguished; for

your maternal uncle, Pyrilampes, is reputed never to have found his equal, in Persia at

the court of the great king, or on the continent of Asia, in all the places to which he went

as ambassador, for stature and beauty; that whole family is not a whit inferior to the

other. Having such ancestors you ought to be first in all things, and, sweet son of

Glaucon, your outward form is no dishonour to any of them. If to beauty you add

temperance, and if in other respects you are what Critias declares you to be, then, dear

Charmides, blessed art thou, in being the son of thy mother. And here lies the point; for

if, as he declares, you have this gift of temperance already, and are temperate enough, in

that case you have no need of any charms, whether of Zamolxis or of Abaris the

Hyperborean, and I may as well let you have the cure of the head at once; but if you have

not yet acquired this quality, I must use the charm before I give you the medicine.

Please, therefore, to inform me whether you admit the truth of what Critias has been

saying;—have you or have you not this quality of temperance?

Charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for modesty is becoming in

youth; he then said very ingenuously, that he really could not at once answer, either yes,

or no, to the question which I had asked: For, said he, if I affirm that I am not

temperate, that would be a strange thing for me to say of myself, and also I should give

the lie to Critias, and many others who think as he tells you, that I am temperate: but, on

the other hand, if I say that I am, I shall have to praise myself, which would be ill

manners; and therefore I do not know how to answer you.

I said to him: That is a natural reply, Charmides, and I think that you and I ought

together to enquire whether you have this quality about which I am asking or not; and

then you will not be compelled to say what you do not like; neither shall I be a rash

practitioner of medicine: therefore, if you please, I will share the enquiry with you, but I

will not press you if you would rather not.

There is nothing which I should like better, he said; and as far as I am concerned you

may proceed in the way which you think best.

I think, I said, that I had better begin by asking you a question; for if temperance abides

in you, you must have an opinion about her; she must give some intimation of her

nature and qualities, which may enable you to form a notion of her. Is not that true?

Yes, he said, that I think is true.

You know your native language, I said, and therefore you must be able to tell what you

feel about this.

Certainly, he said.

In order, then, that I may form a conjecture whether you have temperance abiding in

you or not, tell me, I said, what, in your opinion, is Temperance?

At first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer: then he said that he thought

temperance was doing things orderly and quietly, such things for example as walking in

the streets, and talking, or anything else of that nature. In a word, he said, I should

answer that, in my opinion, temperance is quietness.

Are you right, Charmides? I said. No doubt some would affirm that the quiet are the

temperate; but let us see whether these words have any meaning; and first tell me

whether you would not acknowledge temperance to be of the class of the noble and

good?

Yes.

But which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to write the same letters quickly

or quietly?

Quickly.

And to read quickly or slowly?

Quickly again.

And in playing the lyre, or wrestling, quickness or sharpness are far better than

quietness and slowness?

Yes.

And the same holds in boxing and in the pancratium?

Certainly.

And in leaping and running and in bodily exercises generally, quickness and agility are

good; slowness, and inactivity, and quietness, are bad?

That is evident.

Then, I said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the greatest agility and quickness, is

noblest and best?

Yes, certainly.

And is temperance a good?

Yes.

Then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but quickness will be the higher degree of

temperance, if temperance is a good?

True, he said.

And which, I said, is better—facility in learning, or difficulty in learning?

Facility.

Yes, I said; and facility in learning is learning quickly, and difficulty in learning is

learning quietly and slowly?

True.

And is it not better to teach another quickly and energetically, rather than quietly and

slowly?

Yes.

And which is better, to call to mind, and to remember, quickly and readily, or quietly

and slowly?

The former.

And is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul, and not a quietness?

True.

And is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the writing-master's or the

music-master's, or anywhere else, not as quietly as possible, but as quickly as possible?

Yes.

And in the searchings or deliberations of the soul, not the quietest, as I imagine, and he

who with difficulty deliberates and discovers, is thought worthy of praise, but he who

does so most easily and quickly?

Quite true, he said.

And in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and activity are clearly better than

slowness and quietness?

Clearly they are.

Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life quiet,— certainly not upon

this view; for the life which is temperate is supposed to be the good. And of two things,

one is true,—either never, or very seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better

than the quick and energetic ones; or supposing that of the nobler actions, there are as

many quiet, as quick and vehement: still, even if we grant this, temperance will not be

acting quietly any more than acting quickly and energetically, either in walking or

talking or in anything else; nor will the quiet life be more temperate than the unquiet,

seeing that temperance is admitted by us to be a good and noble thing, and the quick

have been shown to be as good as the quiet.

I think, he said, Socrates, that you are right.

Then once more, Charmides, I said, fix your attention, and look within; consider the

effect which temperance has upon yourself, and the nature of that which has the effect.

Think over all this, and, like a brave youth, tell me—What is temperance?

After a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort to think, he said: My

opinion is, Socrates, that temperance makes a man ashamed or modest, and that

temperance is the same as modesty.

Very good, I said; and did you not admit, just now, that temperance is noble?

Yes, certainly, he said.

And the temperate are also good?

Yes.

And can that be good which does not make men good?

Certainly not.

And you would infer that temperance is not only noble, but also good?

That is my opinion.

Well, I said; but surely you would agree with Homer when he says,

'Modesty is not good for a needy man'?

Yes, he said; I agree.

Then I suppose that modesty is and is not good?

Clearly.

But temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not bad, is always good?

That appears to me to be as you say.

And the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty—if temperance is a good, and if

modesty is as much an evil as a good?

All that, Socrates, appears to me to be true; but I should like to know what you think

about another definition of temperance, which I just now remember to have heard from

some one, who said, 'That temperance is doing our own business.' Was he right who

affirmed that?

You monster! I said; this is what Critias, or some philosopher has told you.

Some one else, then, said Critias; for certainly I have not.

But what matter, said Charmides, from whom I heard this?

No matter at all, I replied; for the point is not who said the words, but whether they are

true or not.

There you are in the right, Socrates, he replied.

To be sure, I said; yet I doubt whether we shall ever be able to discover their truth or

falsehood; for they are a kind of riddle.

What makes you think so? he said.

Because, I said, he who uttered them seems to me to have meant one thing, and said

another. Is the scribe, for example, to be regarded as doing nothing when he reads or

writes?

I should rather think that he was doing something.

And does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write or read, your own names

only, or did you write your enemies' names as well as your own and your friends'?

As much one as the other.

And was there anything meddling or intemperate in this?

Certainly not.

And yet if reading and writing are the same as doing, you were doing what was not your

own business?

But they are the same as doing.

And the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving, and doing anything whatever

which is done by art,—these all clearly come under the head of doing?

Certainly.

And do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law which compelled every

man to weave and wash his own coat, and make his own shoes, and his own flask and

strigil, and other implements, on this principle of every one doing and performing his

own, and abstaining from what is not his own?

I think not, he said.

But, I said, a temperate state will be a well-ordered state.

Of course, he replied.

Then temperance, I said, will not be doing one's own business; not at least in this way,

or doing things of this sort?

Clearly not.

Then, as I was just now saying, he who declared that temperance is a man doing his own

business had another and a hidden meaning; for I do not think that he could have been

such a fool as to mean this. Was he a fool who told you, Charmides?

Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a very wise man.

Then I am quite certain that he put forth his definition as a riddle, thinking that no one

would know the meaning of the words 'doing his own business.'

I dare say, he replied.

And what is the meaning of a man doing his own business? Can you tell me?

Indeed, I cannot; and I should not wonder if the man himself who used this phrase did

not understand what he was saying. Whereupon he laughed slyly, and looked at Critias.

Critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he had a reputation to

maintain with Charmides and the rest of the company. He had, however, hitherto

managed to restrain himself; but now he could no longer forbear, and I am convinced of

the truth of the suspicion which I entertained at the time, that Charmides had heard this

answer about temperance from Critias. And Charmides, who did not want to answer

himself, but to make Critias answer, tried to stir him up. He went on pointing out that

he had been refuted, at which Critias grew angry, and appeared, as I thought, inclined to

quarrel with him; just as a poet might quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in

repeating them; so he looked hard at him and said—

Do you imagine, Charmides, that the author of this definition of temperance did not

understand the meaning of his own words, because you do not understand them?

Why, at his age, I said, most excellent Critias, he can hardly be expected to understand;

but you, who are older, and have studied, may well be assumed to know the meaning of

them; and therefore, if you agree with him, and accept his definition of temperance, I

would much rather argue with you than with him about the truth or falsehood of the

definition.

I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept the definition.

Very good, I said; and now let me repeat my question—Do you admit, as I was just now

saying, that all craftsmen make or do something?

I do.

And do they make or do their own business only, or that of others also?

They make or do that of others also.

And are they temperate, seeing that they make not for themselves or their own business

only?

Why not? he said.

No objection on my part, I said, but there may be a difficulty on his who proposes as a

definition of temperance, 'doing one's own business,' and then says that there is no

reason why those who do the business of others should not be temperate.

Nay (The English reader has to observe that the word 'make' (Greek), in Greek, has also

the sense of 'do' (Greek).), said he; did I ever acknowledge that those who do the

business of others are temperate? I said, those who make, not those who do.

What! I asked; do you mean to say that doing and making are not the same?

No more, he replied, than making or working are the same; thus much I have learned

from Hesiod, who says that 'work is no disgrace.' Now do you imagine that if he had

meant by working and doing such things as you were describing, he would have said

that there was no disgrace in them—for example, in the manufacture of shoes, or in

selling pickles, or sitting for hire in a house of ill-fame? That, Socrates, is not to be

supposed: but I conceive him to have distinguished making from doing and work; and,

while admitting that the making anything might sometimes become a disgrace, when

the employment was not honourable, to have thought that work was never any disgrace

at all. For things nobly and usefully made he called works; and such makings he called

workings, and doings; and he must be supposed to have called such things only man's

proper business, and what is hurtful, not his business: and in that sense Hesiod, and any

other wise man, may be reasonably supposed to call him wise who does his own work.

O Critias, I said, no sooner had you opened your mouth, than I pretty well knew that you

would call that which is proper to a man, and that which is his own, good; and that the

makings (Greek) of the good you would call doings (Greek), for I am no stranger to the

endless distinctions which Prodicus draws about names. Now I have no objection to

your giving names any signification which you please, if you will only tell me what you

mean by them. Please then to begin again, and be a little plainer. Do you mean that this

doing or making, or whatever is the word which you would use, of good actions, is

temperance?

I do, he said.

Then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is temperate?

Yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree.

No matter whether I should or not; just now, not what I think, but what you are saying,

is the point at issue.

Well, he answered; I mean to say, that he who does evil, and not good, is not temperate;

and that he is temperate who does good, and not evil: for temperance I define in plain

words to be the doing of good actions.

And you may be very likely right in what you are saying; but I am curious to know

whether you imagine that temperate men are ignorant of their own temperance?

I do not think so, he said.

And yet were you not saying, just now, that craftsmen might be temperate in doing

another's work, as well as in doing their own?

I was, he replied; but what is your drift?

I have no particular drift, but I wish that you would tell me whether a physician who

cures a patient may do good to himself and good to another also?

I think that he may.

And he who does so does his duty?

Yes.

And does not he who does his duty act temperately or wisely?

Yes, he acts wisely.

But must the physician necessarily know when his treatment is likely to prove beneficial,

and when not? or must the craftsman necessarily know when he is likely to be benefited,

and when not to be benefited, by the work which he is doing?

I suppose not.

Then, I said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not know what he is himself

doing, and yet, in doing good, as you say, he has done temperately or wisely. Was not

that your statement?

Yes.

Then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or temperately, and be wise or

temperate, but not know his own wisdom or temperance?

But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible; and therefore if this is, as you imply, the

necessary consequence of any of my previous admissions, I will withdraw them, rather

than admit that a man can be temperate or wise who does not know himself; and I am

not ashamed to confess that I was in error. For self-knowledge would certainly be

maintained by me to be the very essence of knowledge, and in this I agree with him who

dedicated the inscription, 'Know thyself!' at Delphi. That word, if I am not mistaken, is

put there as a sort of salutation which the god addresses to those who enter the temple;

as much as to say that the ordinary salutation of 'Hail!' is not right, and that the

exhortation 'Be temperate!' would be a far better way of saluting one another. The

notion of him who dedicated the inscription was, as I believe, that the god speaks to

those who enter his temple, not as men speak; but, when a worshipper enters, the first

word which he hears is 'Be temperate!' This, however, like a prophet he expresses in a

sort of riddle, for 'Know thyself!' and 'Be temperate!' are the same, as I maintain, and as

the letters imply (Greek), and yet they may be easily misunderstood; and succeeding

sages who added 'Never too much,' or, 'Give a pledge, and evil is nigh at hand,' would

appear to have so misunderstood them; for they imagined that 'Know thyself!' was a

piece of advice which the god gave, and not his salutation of the worshippers at their

first coming in; and they dedicated their own inscription under the idea that they too

would give equally useful pieces of advice. Shall I tell you, Socrates, why I say all this?

My object is to leave the previous discussion (in which I know not whether you or I are

more right, but, at any rate, no clear result was attained), and to raise a new one in

which I will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge.

Yes, I said, Critias; but you come to me as though I professed to know about the

questions which I ask, and as though I could, if I only would, agree with you. Whereas

the fact is that I enquire with you into the truth of that which is advanced from time to

time, just because I do not know; and when I have enquired, I will say whether I agree

with you or not. Please then to allow me time to reflect.

Reflect, he said.

I am reflecting, I replied, and discover that temperance, or wisdom, if implying a

knowledge of anything, must be a science, and a science of something.

Yes, he said; the science of itself.

Is not medicine, I said, the science of health?

True.

And suppose, I said, that I were asked by you what is the use or effect of medicine, which

is this science of health, I should answer that medicine is of very great use in producing

health, which, as you will admit, is an excellent effect.

Granted.

And if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of architecture, which is the

science of building, I should say houses, and so of other arts, which all have their

different results. Now I want you, Critias, to answer a similar question about

temperance, or wisdom, which, according to you, is the science of itself. Admitting this

view, I ask of you, what good work, worthy of the name wise, does temperance or

wisdom, which is the science of itself, effect? Answer me.

That is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, Socrates, he said; for wisdom is not like

the other sciences, any more than they are like one another: but you proceed as if they

were alike. For tell me, he said, what result is there of computation or geometry, in the

same sense as a house is the result of building, or a garment of weaving, or any other

work of any other art? Can you show me any such result of them? You cannot.

That is true, I said; but still each of these sciences has a subject which is different from

the science. I can show you that the art of computation has to do with odd and even

numbers in their numerical relations to themselves and to each other. Is not that true?

Yes, he said.

And the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art of computation?

They are not.

The art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and heavier; but the art of weighing is

one thing, and the heavy and the light another. Do you admit that?

Yes.

Now, I want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and of which wisdom is the

science?

You are just falling into the old error, Socrates, he said. You come asking in what

wisdom or temperance differs from the other sciences, and then you try to discover

some respect in which they are alike; but they are not, for all the other sciences are of

something else, and not of themselves; wisdom alone is a science of other sciences, and

of itself. And of this, as I believe, you are very well aware: and that you are only doing

what you denied that you were doing just now, trying to refute me, instead of pursuing

the argument.

And what if I am? How can you think that I have any other motive in refuting you but

what I should have in examining into myself? which motive would be just a fear of my

unconsciously fancying that I knew something of which I was ignorant. And at this

moment I pursue the argument chiefly for my own sake, and perhaps in some degree

also for the sake of my other friends. For is not the discovery of things as they truly are,

a good common to all mankind?

Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said.

Then, I said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and give your opinion in answer to the question

which I asked, never minding whether Critias or Socrates is the person refuted; attend

only to the argument, and see what will come of the refutation.

I think that you are right, he replied; and I will do as you say.

Tell me, then, I said, what you mean to affirm about wisdom.

I mean to say that wisdom is the only science which is the science of itself as well as of

the other sciences.

But the science of science, I said, will also be the science of the absence of science.

Very true, he said.

Then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know himself, and be able to examine

what he knows or does not know, and to see what others know and think that they know

and do really know; and what they do not know, and fancy that they know, when they do

not. No other person will be able to do this. And this is wisdom and temperance and

self-knowledge—for a man to know what he knows, and what he does not know. That is

your meaning?

Yes, he said.

Now then, I said, making an offering of the third or last argument to Zeus the Saviour,

let us begin again, and ask, in the first place, whether it is or is not possible for a person

to know that he knows and does not know what he knows and does not know; and in the

second place, whether, if perfectly possible, such knowledge is of any use.

That is what we have to consider, he said.

And here, Critias, I said, I hope that you will find a way out of a difficulty into which I

have got myself. Shall I tell you the nature of the difficulty?

By all means, he replied.

Does not what you have been saying, if true, amount to this: that there must be a single

science which is wholly a science of itself and of other sciences, and that the same is also

the science of the absence of science?

Yes.

But consider how monstrous this proposition is, my friend: in any parallel case, the

impossibility will be transparent to you.

How is that? and in what cases do you mean?

In such cases as this: Suppose that there is a kind of vision which is not like ordinary

vision, but a vision of itself and of other sorts of vision, and of the defect of them, which

in seeing sees no colour, but only itself and other sorts of vision: Do you think that there

is such a kind of vision?

Certainly not.

Or is there a kind of hearing which hears no sound at all, but only itself and other sorts

of hearing, or the defects of them?

There is not.

Or take all the senses: can you imagine that there is any sense of itself and of other

senses, but which is incapable of perceiving the objects of the senses?

I think not.

Could there be any desire which is not the desire of any pleasure, but of itself, and of all

other desires?

Certainly not.

Or can you imagine a wish which wishes for no good, but only for itself and all other

wishes?

I should answer, No.

Or would you say that there is a love which is not the love of beauty, but of itself and of

other loves?

I should not.

Or did you ever know of a fear which fears itself or other fears, but has no object of fear?

I never did, he said.

Or of an opinion which is an opinion of itself and of other opinions, and which has no

opinion on the subjects of opinion in general?

Certainly not.

But surely we are assuming a science of this kind, which, having no subject-matter, is a

science of itself and of the other sciences?

Yes, that is what is affirmed.

But how strange is this, if it be indeed true: we must not however as yet absolutely deny

the possibility of such a science; let us rather consider the matter.

You are quite right.

Well then, this science of which we are speaking is a science of something, and is of a

nature to be a science of something?

Yes.

Just as that which is greater is of a nature to be greater than something else? (Socrates is

intending to show that science differs from the object of science, as any other relative

differs from the object of relation. But where there is comparison—greater, less, heavier,

lighter, and the like—a relation to self as well as to other things involves an absolute

contradiction; and in other cases, as in the case of the senses, is hardly conceivable. The

use of the genitive after the comparative in Greek, (Greek), creates an unavoidable

obscurity in the translation.)

Yes.

Which is less, if the other is conceived to be greater?

To be sure.

And if we could find something which is at once greater than itself, and greater than

other great things, but not greater than those things in comparison of which the others

are greater, then that thing would have the property of being greater and also less than

itself?

That, Socrates, he said, is the inevitable inference.

Or if there be a double which is double of itself and of other doubles, these will be

halves; for the double is relative to the half?

That is true.

And that which is greater than itself will also be less, and that which is heavier will also

be lighter, and that which is older will also be younger: and the same of other things;

that which has a nature relative to self will retain also the nature of its object: I mean to

say, for example, that hearing is, as we say, of sound or voice. Is that true?

Yes.

Then if hearing hears itself, it must hear a voice; for there is no other way of hearing.

Certainly.

And sight also, my excellent friend, if it sees itself must see a colour, for sight cannot see

that which has no colour.

No.

Do you remark, Critias, that in several of the examples which have been recited the

notion of a relation to self is altogether inadmissible, and in other cases hardly

credible—inadmissible, for example, in the case of magnitudes, numbers, and the like?

Very true.

But in the case of hearing and sight, or in the power of self-motion, and the power of

heat to burn, this relation to self will be regarded as incredible by some, but perhaps not

by others. And some great man, my friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily determine

for us, whether there is nothing which has an inherent property of relation to self, or

some things only and not others; and whether in this class of self-related things, if there

be such a class, that science which is called wisdom or temperance is included. I

altogether distrust my own power of determining these matters: I am not certain

whether there is such a science of science at all; and even if there be, I should not

acknowledge this to be wisdom or temperance, until I can also see whether such a

science would or would not do us any good; for I have an impression that temperance is

a benefit and a good. And therefore, O son of Callaeschrus, as you maintain that

temperance or wisdom is a science of science, and also of the absence of science, I will

request you to show in the first place, as I was saying before, the possibility, and in the

second place, the advantage, of such a science; and then perhaps you may satisfy me

that you are right in your view of temperance.

Critias heard me say this, and saw that I was in a difficulty; and as one person when

another yawns in his presence catches the infection of yawning from him, so did he

seem to be driven into a difficulty by my difficulty. But as he had a reputation to

maintain, he was ashamed to admit before the company that he could not answer my

challenge or determine the question at issue; and he made an unintelligible attempt to

hide his perplexity. In order that the argument might proceed, I said to him, Well then

Critias, if you like, let us assume that there is this science of science; whether the

assumption is right or wrong may hereafter be investigated. Admitting the existence of

it, will you tell me how such a science enables us to distinguish what we know or do not

know, which, as we were saying, is self-knowledge or wisdom: so we were saying?

Yes, Socrates, he said; and that I think is certainly true: for he who has this science or

knowledge which knows itself will become like the knowledge which he has, in the same

way that he who has swiftness will be swift, and he who has beauty will be beautiful, and

he who has knowledge will know. In the same way he who has that knowledge which is

self-knowing, will know himself.

I do not doubt, I said, that a man will know himself, when he possesses that which has

self-knowledge: but what necessity is there that, having this, he should know what he

knows and what he does not know?

Because, Socrates, they are the same.

Very likely, I said; but I remain as stupid as ever; for still I fail to comprehend how this

knowing what you know and do not know is the same as the knowledge of self.

What do you mean? he said.

This is what I mean, I replied: I will admit that there is a science of science;—can this do

more than determine that of two things one is and the other is not science or

knowledge?

No, just that.

But is knowledge or want of knowledge of health the same as knowledge or want of

knowledge of justice?

Certainly not.

The one is medicine, and the other is politics; whereas that of which we are speaking is

knowledge pure and simple.

Very true.

And if a man knows only, and has only knowledge of knowledge, and has no further

knowledge of health and justice, the probability is that he will only know that he knows

something, and has a certain knowledge, whether concerning himself or other men.

True.

Then how will this knowledge or science teach him to know what he knows? Say that he

knows health;—not wisdom or temperance, but the art of medicine has taught it to

him;—and he has learned harmony from the art of music, and building from the art of

building,—neither, from wisdom or temperance: and the same of other things.

That is evident.

How will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of knowledge or science of science, ever

teach him that he knows health, or that he knows building?

It is impossible.

Then he who is ignorant of these things will only know that he knows, but not what he

knows?

True.

Then wisdom or being wise appears to be not the knowledge of the things which we do

or do not know, but only the knowledge that we know or do not know?

That is the inference.

Then he who has this knowledge will not be able to examine whether a pretender knows

or does not know that which he says that he knows: he will only know that he has a

knowledge of some kind; but wisdom will not show him of what the knowledge is?

Plainly not.

Neither will he be able to distinguish the pretender in medicine from the true physician,

nor between any other true and false professor of knowledge. Let us consider the matter

in this way: If the wise man or any other man wants to distinguish the true physician

from the false, how will he proceed? He will not talk to him about medicine; and that, as

we were saying, is the only thing which the physician understands.

True.

And, on the other hand, the physician knows nothing of science, for this has been

assumed to be the province of wisdom.

True.

And further, since medicine is science, we must infer that he does not know anything of

medicine.

Exactly.

Then the wise man may indeed know that the physician has some kind of science or

knowledge; but when he wants to discover the nature of this he will ask, What is the

subject-matter? For the several sciences are distinguished not by the mere fact that they

are sciences, but by the nature of their subjects. Is not that true?

Quite true.

And medicine is distinguished from other sciences as having the subject-matter of

health and disease?

Yes.

And he who would enquire into the nature of medicine must pursue the enquiry into

health and disease, and not into what is extraneous?

True.

And he who judges rightly will judge of the physician as a physician in what relates to

these?

He will.

He will consider whether what he says is true, and whether what he does is right, in

relation to health and disease?

He will.

But can any one attain the knowledge of either unless he have a knowledge of medicine?

He cannot.

No one at all, it would seem, except the physician can have this knowledge; and

therefore not the wise man; he would have to be a physician as well as a wise man.

Very true.

Then, assuredly, wisdom or temperance, if only a science of science, and of the absence

of science or knowledge, will not be able to distinguish the physician who knows from

one who does not know but pretends or thinks that he knows, or any other professor of

anything at all; like any other artist, he will only know his fellow in art or wisdom, and

no one else.

That is evident, he said.

But then what profit, Critias, I said, is there any longer in wisdom or temperance which

yet remains, if this is wisdom? If, indeed, as we were supposing at first, the wise man

had been able to distinguish what he knew and did not know, and that he knew the one

and did not know the other, and to recognize a similar faculty of discernment in others,

there would certainly have been a great advantage in being wise; for then we should

never have made a mistake, but have passed through life the unerring guides of

ourselves and of those who are under us; and we should not have attempted to do what

we did not know, but we should have found out those who knew, and have handed the

business over to them and trusted in them; nor should we have allowed those who were

under us to do anything which they were not likely to do well; and they would be likely

to do well just that of which they had knowledge; and the house or state which was

ordered or administered under the guidance of wisdom, and everything else of which

wisdom was the lord, would have been well ordered; for truth guiding, and error having

been eliminated, in all their doings, men would have done well, and would have been

happy. Was not this, Critias, what we spoke of as the great advantage of wisdom—to

know what is known and what is unknown to us?

Very true, he said.

And now you perceive, I said, that no such science is to be found anywhere.

I perceive, he said.

May we assume then, I said, that wisdom, viewed in this new light merely as a

knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has this advantage:—that he who possesses

such knowledge will more easily learn anything which he learns; and that everything will

be clearer to him, because, in addition to the knowledge of individuals, he sees the

science, and this also will better enable him to test the knowledge which others have of

what he knows himself; whereas the enquirer who is without this knowledge may be

supposed to have a feebler and weaker insight? Are not these, my friend, the real

advantages which are to be gained from wisdom? And are not we looking and seeking

after something more than is to be found in her?

That is very likely, he said.

That is very likely, I said; and very likely, too, we have been enquiring to no purpose; as I

am led to infer, because I observe that if this is wisdom, some strange consequences

would follow. Let us, if you please, assume the possibility of this science of sciences, and

further admit and allow, as was originally suggested, that wisdom is the knowledge of

what we know and do not know. Assuming all this, still, upon further consideration, I

am doubtful, Critias, whether wisdom, such as this, would do us much good. For we

were wrong, I think, in supposing, as we were saying just now, that such wisdom

ordering the government of house or state would be a great benefit.

How so? he said.

Why, I said, we were far too ready to admit the great benefits which mankind would

obtain from their severally doing the things which they knew, and committing the things

of which they are ignorant to those who were better acquainted with them.

Were we not right in making that admission?

I think not.

How very strange, Socrates!

By the dog of Egypt, I said, there I agree with you; and I was thinking as much just now

when I said that strange consequences would follow, and that I was afraid we were on

the wrong track; for however ready we may be to admit that this is wisdom, I certainly

cannot make out what good this sort of thing does to us.

What do you mean? he said; I wish that you could make me understand what you mean.

I dare say that what I am saying is nonsense, I replied; and yet if a man has any feeling

of what is due to himself, he cannot let the thought which comes into his mind pass

away unheeded and unexamined.

I like that, he said.

Hear, then, I said, my own dream; whether coming through the horn or the ivory gate, I

cannot tell. The dream is this: Let us suppose that wisdom is such as we are now

defining, and that she has absolute sway over us; then each action will be done

according to the arts or sciences, and no one professing to be a pilot when he is not, or

any physician or general, or any one else pretending to know matters of which he is

ignorant, will deceive or elude us; our health will be improved; our safety at sea, and

also in battle, will be assured; our coats and shoes, and all other instruments and

implements will be skilfully made, because the workmen will be good and true. Aye, and

if you please, you may suppose that prophecy, which is the knowledge of the future, will

be under the control of wisdom, and that she will deter deceivers and set up the true

prophets in their place as the revealers of the future. Now I quite agree that mankind,

thus provided, would live and act according to knowledge, for wisdom would watch and

prevent ignorance from intruding on us. But whether by acting according to knowledge

we shall act well and be happy, my dear Critias,— this is a point which we have not yet

been able to determine.

Yet I think, he replied, that if you discard knowledge, you will hardly find the crown of

happiness in anything else.

But of what is this knowledge? I said. Just answer me that small question. Do you mean

a knowledge of shoemaking?

God forbid.

Or of working in brass?

Certainly not.

Or in wool, or wood, or anything of that sort?

No, I do not.

Then, I said, we are giving up the doctrine that he who lives according to knowledge is

happy, for these live according to knowledge, and yet they are not allowed by you to be

happy; but I think that you mean to confine happiness to particular individuals who live

according to knowledge, such for example as the prophet, who, as I was saying, knows

the future. Is it of him you are speaking or of some one else?

Yes, I mean him, but there are others as well.

Yes, I said, some one who knows the past and present as well as the future, and is

ignorant of nothing. Let us suppose that there is such a person, and if there is, you will

allow that he is the most knowing of all living men.

Certainly he is.

Yet I should like to know one thing more: which of the different kinds of knowledge

makes him happy? or do all equally make him happy?

Not all equally, he replied.

But which most tends to make him happy? the knowledge of what past, present, or

future thing? May I infer this to be the knowledge of the game of draughts?

Nonsense about the game of draughts.

Or of computation?

No.

Or of health?

That is nearer the truth, he said.

And that knowledge which is nearest of all, I said, is the knowledge of what?

The knowledge with which he discerns good and evil.

Monster! I said; you have been carrying me round in a circle, and all this time hiding

from me the fact that the life according to knowledge is not that which makes men act

rightly and be happy, not even if knowledge include all the sciences, but one science

only, that of good and evil. For, let me ask you, Critias, whether, if you take away this,

medicine will not equally give health, and shoemaking equally produce shoes, and the

art of the weaver clothes?—whether the art of the pilot will not equally save our lives at

sea, and the art of the general in war?

Quite so.

And yet, my dear Critias, none of these things will be well or beneficially done, if the

science of the good be wanting.

True.

But that science is not wisdom or temperance, but a science of human advantage; not a

science of other sciences, or of ignorance, but of good and evil: and if this be of use, then

wisdom or temperance will not be of use.

And why, he replied, will not wisdom be of use? For, however much we assume that

wisdom is a science of sciences, and has a sway over other sciences, surely she will have

this particular science of the good under her control, and in this way will benefit us.

And will wisdom give health? I said; is not this rather the effect of medicine? Or does

wisdom do the work of any of the other arts,—do they not each of them do their own

work? Have we not long ago asseverated that wisdom is only the knowledge of

knowledge and of ignorance, and of nothing else?

That is obvious.

Then wisdom will not be the producer of health.

Certainly not.

The art of health is different.

Yes, different.

Nor does wisdom give advantage, my good friend; for that again we have just now been

attributing to another art.

Very true.

How then can wisdom be advantageous, when giving no advantage?

That, Socrates, is certainly inconceivable.

You see then, Critias, that I was not far wrong in fearing that I could have no sound

notion about wisdom; I was quite right in depreciating myself; for that which is

admitted to be the best of all things would never have seemed to us useless, if I had been

good for anything at an enquiry. But now I have been utterly defeated, and have failed to

discover what that is to which the imposer of names gave this name of temperance or

wisdom. And yet many more admissions were made by us than could be fairly granted;

for we admitted that there was a science of science, although the argument said No, and

protested against us; and we admitted further, that this science knew the works of the

other sciences (although this too was denied by the argument), because we wanted to

show that the wise man had knowledge of what he knew and did not know; also we

nobly disregarded, and never even considered, the impossibility of a man knowing in a

sort of way that which he does not know at all; for our assumption was, that he knows

that which he does not know; than which nothing, as I think, can be more irrational.

And yet, after finding us so easy and good-natured, the enquiry is still unable to discover

the truth; but mocks us to a degree, and has gone out of its way to prove the inutility of

that which we admitted only by a sort of supposition and fiction to be the true definition

of temperance or wisdom: which result, as far as I am concerned, is not so much to be

lamented, I said. But for your sake, Charmides, I am very sorry—that you, having such

beauty and such wisdom and temperance of soul, should have no profit or good in life

from your wisdom and temperance. And still more am I grieved about the charm which

I learned with so much pain, and to so little profit, from the Thracian, for the sake of a

thing which is nothing worth. I think indeed that there is a mistake, and that I must be a

bad enquirer, for wisdom or temperance I believe to be really a great good; and happy

are you, Charmides, if you certainly possess it. Wherefore examine yourself, and see

whether you have this gift and can do without the charm; for if you can, I would rather

advise you to regard me simply as a fool who is never able to reason out anything; and to

rest assured that the more wise and temperate you are, the happier you will be.

Charmides said: I am sure that I do not know, Socrates, whether I have or have not this

gift of wisdom and temperance; for how can I know whether I have a thing, of which

even you and Critias are, as you say, unable to discover the nature?—(not that I believe

you.) And further, I am sure, Socrates, that I do need the charm, and as far as I am

concerned, I shall be willing to be charmed by you daily, until you say that I have had

enough.

Very good, Charmides, said Critias; if you do this I shall have a proof of your

temperance, that is, if you allow yourself to be charmed by Socrates, and never desert

him at all.

You may depend on my following and not deserting him, said Charmides: if you who are

my guardian command me, I should be very wrong not to obey you.

And I do command you, he said.

Then I will do as you say, and begin this very day.

You sirs, I said, what are you conspiring about?

We are not conspiring, said Charmides, we have conspired already.

And are you about to use violence, without even going through the forms of justice?

Yes, I shall use violence, he replied, since he orders me; and therefore you had better

consider well.

But the time for consideration has passed, I said, when violence is employed; and you,

when you are determined on anything, and in the mood of violence, are irresistible.

Do not you resist me then, he said.

I will not resist you, I replied.

Laches, or Courage

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Lysimachus, son of Aristides. Melesias, son of

Thucydides. Their sons. Nicias, Laches, Socrates.

LYSIMACHUS: You have seen the exhibition of the man fighting in armour, Nicias and

Laches, but we did not tell you at the time the reason why my friend Melesias and I

asked you to go with us and see him. I think that we may as well confess what this was,

for we certainly ought not to have any reserve with you. The reason was, that we were

intending to ask your advice. Some laugh at the very notion of advising others, and when

they are asked will not say what they think. They guess at the wishes of the person who

asks them, and answer according to his, and not according to their own, opinion. But as

we know that you are good judges, and will say exactly what you think, we have taken

you into our counsels. The matter about which I am making all this preface is as follows:

Melesias and I have two sons; that is his son, and he is named Thucydides, after his

grandfather; and this is mine, who is also called after his grandfather, Aristides. Now,

we are resolved to take the greatest care of the youths, and not to let them run about as

they like, which is too often the way with the young, when they are no longer children,

but to begin at once and do the utmost that we can for them. And knowing you to have

sons of your own, we thought that you were most likely to have attended to their

training and improvement, and, if perchance you have not attended to them, we may

remind you that you ought to have done so, and would invite you to assist us in the

fulfilment of a common duty. I will tell you, Nicias and Laches, even at the risk of being

tedious, how we came to think of this. Melesias and I live together, and our sons live

with us; and now, as I was saying at first, we are going to confess to you. Both of us often

talk to the lads about the many noble deeds which our own fathers did in war and

peace—in the management of the allies, and in the administration of the city; but

neither of us has any deeds of his own which he can show. The truth is that we are

ashamed of this contrast being seen by them, and we blame our fathers for letting us be

spoiled in the days of our youth, while they were occupied with the concerns of others;

and we urge all this upon the lads, pointing out to them that they will not grow up to

honour if they are rebellious and take no pains about themselves; but that if they take

pains they may, perhaps, become worthy of the names which they bear. They, on their

part, promise to comply with our wishes; and our care is to discover what studies or

pursuits are likely to be most improving to them. Some one commended to us the art of

fighting in armour, which he thought an excellent accomplishment for a young man to

learn; and he praised the man whose exhibition you have seen, and told us to go and see

him. And we determined that we would go, and get you to accompany us; and we were

intending at the same time, if you did not object, to take counsel with you about the

education of our sons. That is the matter which we wanted to talk over with you; and we

hope that you will give us your opinion about this art of fighting in armour, and about

any other studies or pursuits which may or may not be desirable for a young man to

learn. Please to say whether you agree to our proposal.

NICIAS: As far as I am concerned, Lysimachus and Melesias, I applaud your purpose,

and will gladly assist you; and I believe that you, Laches, will be equally glad.

LACHES: Certainly, Nicias; and I quite approve of the remark which Lysimachus made

about his own father and the father of Melesias, and which is applicable, not only to

them, but to us, and to every one who is occupied with public affairs. As he says, such

persons are too apt to be negligent and careless of their own children and their private

concerns. There is much truth in that remark of yours, Lysimachus. But why, instead of

consulting us, do you not consult our friend Socrates about the education of the youths?

He is of the same deme with you, and is always passing his time in places where the

youth have any noble study or pursuit, such as you are enquiring after.

LYSIMACHUS: Why, Laches, has Socrates ever attended to matters of this sort?

LACHES: Certainly, Lysimachus.

NICIAS: That I have the means of knowing as well as Laches; for quite lately he supplied

me with a teacher of music for my sons,—Damon, the disciple of Agathocles, who is a

most accomplished man in every way, as well as a musician, and a companion of

inestimable value for young men at their age.

LYSIMACHUS: Those who have reached my time of life, Socrates and Nicias and

Laches, fall out of acquaintance with the young, because they are generally detained at

home by old age; but you, O son of Sophroniscus, should let your fellow demesman have

the benefit of any advice which you are able to give. Moreover I have a claim upon you as

an old friend of your father; for I and he were always companions and friends, and to the

hour of his death there never was a difference between us; and now it comes back to me,

at the mention of your name, that I have heard these lads talking to one another at

home, and often speaking of Socrates in terms of the highest praise; but I have never

thought to ask them whether the son of Sophroniscus was the person whom they meant.

Tell me, my boys, whether this is the Socrates of whom you have often spoken?

SON: Certainly, father, this is he.

LYSIMACHUS: I am delighted to hear, Socrates, that you maintain the name of your

father, who was a most excellent man; and I further rejoice at the prospect of our family

ties being renewed.

LACHES: Indeed, Lysimachus, you ought not to give him up; for I can assure you that I

have seen him maintaining, not only his father's, but also his country's name. He was

my companion in the retreat from Delium, and I can tell you that if others had only been

like him, the honour of our country would have been upheld, and the great defeat would

never have occurred.

LYSIMACHUS: That is very high praise which is accorded to you, Socrates, by faithful

witnesses and for actions like those which they praise. Let me tell you the pleasure

which I feel in hearing of your fame; and I hope that you will regard me as one of your

warmest friends. You ought to have visited us long ago, and made yourself at home with

us; but now, from this day forward, as we have at last found one another out, do as I

say—come and make acquaintance with me, and with these young men, that I may

continue your friend, as I was your father's. I shall expect you to do so, and shall venture

at some future time to remind you of your duty. But what say you of the matter of which

we were beginning to speak—the art of fighting in armour? Is that a practice in which

the lads may be advantageously instructed?

SOCRATES: I will endeavour to advise you, Lysimachus, as far as I can in this matter,

and also in every way will comply with your wishes; but as I am younger and not so

experienced, I think that I ought certainly to hear first what my elders have to say, and

to learn of them, and if I have anything to add, then I may venture to give my opinion to

them as well as to you. Suppose, Nicias, that one or other of you begin.

NICIAS: I have no objection, Socrates; and my opinion is that the acquirement of this

art is in many ways useful to young men. It is an advantage to them that among the

favourite amusements of their leisure hours they should have one which tends to

improve and not to injure their bodily health. No gymnastics could be better or harder

exercise; and this, and the art of riding, are of all arts most befitting to a freeman; for

they only who are thus trained in the use of arms are the athletes of our military

profession, trained in that on which the conflict turns. Moreover in actual battle, when

you have to fight in a line with a number of others, such an acquirement will be of some

use, and will be of the greatest whenever the ranks are broken and you have to fight

singly, either in pursuit, when you are attacking some one who is defending himself, or

in flight, when you have to defend yourself against an assailant. Certainly he who

possessed the art could not meet with any harm at the hands of a single person, or

perhaps of several; and in any case he would have a great advantage. Further, this sort of

skill inclines a man to the love of other noble lessons; for every man who has learned

how to fight in armour will desire to learn the proper arrangement of an army, which is

the sequel of the lesson: and when he has learned this, and his ambition is once fired, he

will go on to learn the complete art of the general. There is no difficulty in seeing that

the knowledge and practice of other military arts will be honourable and valuable to a

man; and this lesson may be the beginning of them. Let me add a further advantage,

which is by no means a slight one,—that this science will make any man a great deal

more valiant and self-possessed in the field. And I will not disdain to mention, what by

some may be thought to be a small matter;—he will make a better appearance at the

right time; that is to say, at the time when his appearance will strike terror into his

enemies. My opinion then, Lysimachus, is, as I say, that the youths should be instructed

in this art, and for the reasons which I have given. But Laches may take a different view;

and I shall be very glad to hear what he has to say.

LACHES: I should not like to maintain, Nicias, that any kind of knowledge is not to be

learned; for all knowledge appears to be a good: and if, as Nicias and as the teachers of

the art affirm, this use of arms is really a species of knowledge, then it ought to be

learned; but if not, and if those who profess to teach it are deceivers only; or if it be

knowledge, but not of a valuable sort, then what is the use of learning it? I say this,

because I think that if it had been really valuable, the Lacedaemonians, whose whole life

is passed in finding out and practising the arts which give them an advantage over other

nations in war, would have discovered this one. And even if they had not, still these

professors of the art would certainly not have failed to discover that of all the Hellenes

the Lacedaemonians have the greatest interest in such matters, and that a master of the

art who was honoured among them would be sure to make his fortune among other

nations, just as a tragic poet would who is honoured among ourselves; which is the

reason why he who fancies that he can write a tragedy does not go about itinerating in

the neighbouring states, but rushes hither straight, and exhibits at Athens; and this is

natural. Whereas I perceive that these fighters in armour regard Lacedaemon as a

sacred inviolable territory, which they do not touch with the point of their foot; but they

make a circuit of the neighbouring states, and would rather exhibit to any others than to

the Spartans; and particularly to those who would themselves acknowledge that they are

by no means firstrate in the arts of war. Further, Lysimachus, I have encountered a good

many of these gentlemen in actual service, and have taken their measure, which I can

give you at once; for none of these masters of fence have ever been distinguished in

war,—there has been a sort of fatality about them; while in all other arts the men of note

have been always those who have practised the art, they appear to be a most unfortunate

exception. For example, this very Stesilaus, whom you and I have just witnessed

exhibiting in all that crowd and making such great professions of his powers, I have seen

at another time making, in sober truth, an involuntary exhibition of himself, which was

a far better spectacle. He was a marine on board a ship which struck a transport vessel,

and was armed with a weapon, half spear, half scythe; the singularity of this weapon was

worthy of the singularity of the man. To make a long story short, I will only tell you what

happened to this notable invention of the scythe spear. He was fighting, and the scythe

was caught in the rigging of the other ship, and stuck fast; and he tugged, but was

unable to get his weapon free. The two ships were passing one another. He first ran

along his own ship holding on to the spear; but as the other ship passed by and drew

him after as he was holding on, he let the spear slip through his hand until he retained

only the end of the handle. The people in the transport clapped their hands, and laughed

at his ridiculous figure; and when some one threw a stone, which fell on the deck at his

feet, and he quitted his hold of the scythe-spear, the crew of his own trireme also burst

out laughing; they could not refrain when they beheld the weapon waving in the air,

suspended from the transport. Now I do not deny that there may be something in such

an art, as Nicias asserts, but I tell you my experience; and, as I said at first, whether this

be an art of which the advantage is so slight, or not an art at all, but only an imposition,

in either case such an acquirement is not worth having. For my opinion is, that if the

professor of this art be a coward, he will be likely to become rash, and his character will

be only more notorious; or if he be brave, and fail ever so little, other men will be on the

watch, and he will be greatly traduced; for there is a jealousy of such pretenders; and

unless a man be pre-eminent in valour, he cannot help being ridiculous, if he says that

he has this sort of skill. Such is my judgment, Lysimachus, of the desirableness of this

art; but, as I said at first, ask Socrates, and do not let him go until he has given you his

opinion of the matter.

LYSIMACHUS: I am going to ask this favour of you, Socrates; as is the more necessary

because the two councillors disagree, and some one is in a manner still needed who will

decide between them. Had they agreed, no arbiter would have been required. But as

Laches has voted one way and Nicias another, I should like to hear with which of our

two friends you agree.

SOCRATES: What, Lysimachus, are you going to accept the opinion of the majority?

LYSIMACHUS: Why, yes, Socrates; what else am I to do?

SOCRATES: And would you do so too, Melesias? If you were deliberating about the

gymnastic training of your son, would you follow the advice of the majority of us, or the

opinion of the one who had been trained and exercised under a skilful master?

MELESIAS: The latter, Socrates; as would surely be reasonable.

SOCRATES: His one vote would be worth more than the vote of all us four?

MELESIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And for this reason, as I imagine,—because a good decision is based on

knowledge and not on numbers?

MELESIAS: To be sure.

SOCRATES: Must we not then first of all ask, whether there is any one of us who has

knowledge of that about which we are deliberating? If there is, let us take his advice,

though he be one only, and not mind the rest; if there is not, let us seek further counsel.

Is this a slight matter about which you and Lysimachus are deliberating? Are you not

risking the greatest of your possessions? For children are your riches; and upon their

turning out well or ill depends the whole order of their father's house.

MELESIAS: That is true.

SOCRATES: Great care, then, is required in this matter?

MELESIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Suppose, as I was just now saying, that we were considering, or wanting to

consider, who was the best trainer. Should we not select him who knew and had

practised the art, and had the best teachers?

MELESIAS: I think that we should.

SOCRATES: But would there not arise a prior question about the nature of the art of

which we want to find the masters?

MELESIAS: I do not understand.

SOCRATES: Let me try to make my meaning plainer then. I do not think that we have as

yet decided what that is about which we are consulting, when we ask which of us is or is

not skilled in the art, and has or has not had a teacher of the art.

NICIAS: Why, Socrates, is not the question whether young men ought or ought not to

learn the art of fighting in armour?

SOCRATES: Yes, Nicias; but there is also a prior question, which I may illustrate in this

way: When a person considers about applying a medicine to the eyes, would you say that

he is consulting about the medicine or about the eyes?

NICIAS: About the eyes.

SOCRATES: And when he considers whether he shall set a bridle on a horse and at what

time, he is thinking of the horse and not of the bridle?

NICIAS: True.

SOCRATES: And in a word, when he considers anything for the sake of another thing,

he thinks of the end and not of the means?

NICIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And when you call in an adviser, you should see whether he too is skilful in

the accomplishment of the end which you have in view?

NICIAS: Most true.

SOCRATES: And at present we have in view some knowledge, of which the end is the

soul of youth?

NICIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And we are enquiring, Which of us is skilful or successful in the treatment

of the soul, and which of us has had good teachers?

LACHES: Well but, Socrates; did you never observe that some persons, who have had no

teachers, are more skilful than those who have, in some things?

SOCRATES: Yes, Laches, I have observed that; but you would not be very willing to trust

them if they only professed to be masters of their art, unless they could show some proof

of their skill or excellence in one or more works.

LACHES: That is true.

SOCRATES: And therefore, Laches and Nicias, as Lysimachus and Melesias, in their

anxiety to improve the minds of their sons, have asked our advice about them, we too

should tell them who our teachers were, if we say that we have had any, and prove them

to be in the first place men of merit and experienced trainers of the minds of youth and

also to have been really our teachers. Or if any of us says that he has no teacher, but that

he has works of his own to show; then he should point out to them what Athenians or

strangers, bond or free, he is generally acknowledged to have improved. But if he can

show neither teachers nor works, then he should tell them to look out for others; and

not run the risk of spoiling the children of friends, and thereby incurring the most

formidable accusation which can be brought against any one by those nearest to him. As

for myself, Lysimachus and Melesias, I am the first to confess that I have never had a

teacher of the art of virtue; although I have always from my earliest youth desired to

have one. But I am too poor to give money to the Sophists, who are the only professors

of moral improvement; and to this day I have never been able to discover the art myself,

though I should not be surprised if Nicias or Laches may have discovered or learned it;

for they are far wealthier than I am, and may therefore have learnt of others. And they

are older too; so that they have had more time to make the discovery. And I really

believe that they are able to educate a man; for unless they had been confident in their

own knowledge, they would never have spoken thus decidedly of the pursuits which are

advantageous or hurtful to a young man. I repose confidence in both of them; but I am

surprised to find that they differ from one another. And therefore, Lysimachus, as

Laches suggested that you should detain me, and not let me go until I answered, I in

turn earnestly beseech and advise you to detain Laches and Nicias, and question them. I

would have you say to them: Socrates avers that he has no knowledge of the matter—he

is unable to decide which of you speaks truly; neither discoverer nor student is he of

anything of the kind. But you, Laches and Nicias, should each of you tell us who is the

most skilful educator whom you have ever known; and whether you invented the art

yourselves, or learned of another; and if you learned, who were your respective teachers,

and who were their brothers in the art; and then, if you are too much occupied in

politics to teach us yourselves, let us go to them, and present them with gifts, or make

interest with them, or both, in the hope that they may be induced to take charge of our

children and of yours; and then they will not grow up inferior, and disgrace their

ancestors. But if you are yourselves original discoverers in that field, give us some proof

of your skill. Who are they who, having been inferior persons, have become under your

care good and noble? For if this is your first attempt at education, there is a danger that

you may be trying the experiment, not on the 'vile corpus' of a Carian slave, but on your

own sons, or the sons of your friend, and, as the proverb says, 'break the large vessel in

learning to make pots.' Tell us then, what qualities you claim or do not claim. Make

them tell you that, Lysimachus, and do not let them off.

LYSIMACHUS: I very much approve of the words of Socrates, my friends; but you,

Nicias and Laches, must determine whether you will be questioned, and give an

explanation about matters of this sort. Assuredly, I and Melesias would be greatly

pleased to hear you answer the questions which Socrates asks, if you will: for I began by

saying that we took you into our counsels because we thought that you would have

attended to the subject, especially as you have children who, like our own, are nearly of

an age to be educated. Well, then, if you have no objection, suppose that you take

Socrates into partnership; and do you and he ask and answer one another's questions:

for, as he has well said, we are deliberating about the most important of our concerns. I

hope that you will see fit to comply with our request.

NICIAS: I see very clearly, Lysimachus, that you have only known Socrates' father, and

have no acquaintance with Socrates himself: at least, you can only have known him

when he was a child, and may have met him among his fellow-wardsmen, in company

with his father, at a sacrifice, or at some other gathering. You clearly show that you have

never known him since he arrived at manhood.

LYSIMACHUS: Why do you say that, Nicias?

NICIAS: Because you seem not to be aware that any one who has an intellectual affinity

to Socrates and enters into conversation with him is liable to be drawn into an

argument; and whatever subject he may start, he will be continually carried round and

round by him, until at last he finds that he has to give an account both of his present and

past life; and when he is once entangled, Socrates will not let him go until he has

completely and thoroughly sifted him. Now I am used to his ways; and I know that he

will certainly do as I say, and also that I myself shall be the sufferer; for I am fond of his

conversation, Lysimachus. And I think that there is no harm in being reminded of any

wrong thing which we are, or have been, doing: he who does not fly from reproof will be

sure to take more heed of his after-life; as Solon says, he will wish and desire to be

learning so long as he lives, and will not think that old age of itself brings wisdom. To

me, to be cross-examined by Socrates is neither unusual nor unpleasant; indeed, I knew

all along that where Socrates was, the argument would soon pass from our sons to

ourselves; and therefore, I say that for my part, I am quite willing to discourse with

Socrates in his own manner; but you had better ask our friend Laches what his feeling

may be.

LACHES: I have but one feeling, Nicias, or (shall I say?) two feelings, about discussions.

Some would think that I am a lover, and to others I may seem to be a hater of discourse;

for when I hear a man discoursing of virtue, or of any sort of wisdom, who is a true man

and worthy of his theme, I am delighted beyond measure: and I compare the man and

his words, and note the harmony and correspondence of them. And such an one I deem

to be the true musician, attuned to a fairer harmony than that of the lyre, or any

pleasant instrument of music; for truly he has in his own life a harmony of words and

deeds arranged, not in the Ionian, or in the Phrygian mode, nor yet in the Lydian, but in

the true Hellenic mode, which is the Dorian, and no other. Such an one makes me merry

with the sound of his voice; and when I hear him I am thought to be a lover of discourse;

so eager am I in drinking in his words. But a man whose actions do not agree with his

words is an annoyance to me; and the better he speaks the more I hate him, and then I

seem to be a hater of discourse. As to Socrates, I have no knowledge of his words, but of

old, as would seem, I have had experience of his deeds; and his deeds show that free and

noble sentiments are natural to him. And if his words accord, then I am of one mind

with him, and shall be delighted to be interrogated by a man such as he is, and shall not

be annoyed at having to learn of him: for I too agree with Solon, 'that I would fain grow

old, learning many things.' But I must be allowed to add 'of the good only.' Socrates

must be willing to allow that he is a good teacher, or I shall be a dull and uncongenial

pupil: but that the teacher is younger, or not as yet in repute—anything of that sort is of

no account with me. And therefore, Socrates, I give you notice that you may teach and

confute me as much as ever you like, and also learn of me anything which I know. So

high is the opinion which I have entertained of you ever since the day on which you were

my companion in danger, and gave a proof of your valour such as only the man of merit

can give. Therefore, say whatever you like, and do not mind about the difference of our

ages.

SOCRATES: I cannot say that either of you show any reluctance to take counsel and

advise with me.

LYSIMACHUS: But this is our proper business; and yours as well as ours, for I reckon

you as one of us. Please then to take my place, and find out from Nicias and Laches what

we want to know, for the sake of the youths, and talk and consult with them: for I am

old, and my memory is bad; and I do not remember the questions which I am going to

ask, or the answers to them; and if there is any interruption I am quite lost. I will

therefore beg of you to carry on the proposed discussion by your selves; and I will listen,

and Melesias and I will act upon your conclusions.

SOCRATES: Let us, Nicias and Laches, comply with the request of Lysimachus and

Melesias. There will be no harm in asking ourselves the question which was first

proposed to us: 'Who have been our own instructors in this sort of training, and whom

have we made better?' But the other mode of carrying on the enquiry will bring us

equally to the same point, and will be more like proceeding from first principles. For if

we knew that the addition of something would improve some other thing, and were able

to make the addition, then, clearly, we must know how that about which we are advising

may be best and most easily attained. Perhaps you do not understand what I mean.

Then let me make my meaning plainer in this way. Suppose we knew that the addition of

sight makes better the eyes which possess this gift, and also were able to impart sight to

the eyes, then, clearly, we should know the nature of sight, and should be able to advise

how this gift of sight may be best and most easily attained; but if we knew neither what

sight is, nor what hearing is, we should not be very good medical advisers about the eyes

or the ears, or about the best mode of giving sight and hearing to them.

LACHES: That is true, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And are not our two friends, Laches, at this very moment inviting us to

consider in what way the gift of virtue may be imparted to their sons for the

improvement of their minds?

LACHES: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then must we not first know the nature of virtue? For how can we advise

any one about the best mode of attaining something of which we are wholly ignorant?

LACHES: I do not think that we can, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then, Laches, we may presume that we know the nature of virtue?

LACHES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And that which we know we must surely be able to tell?

LACHES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: I would not have us begin, my friend, with enquiring about the whole of

virtue; for that may be more than we can accomplish; let us first consider whether we

have a sufficient knowledge of a part; the enquiry will thus probably be made easier to

us.

LACHES: Let us do as you say, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then which of the parts of virtue shall we select? Must we not select that to

which the art of fighting in armour is supposed to conduce? And is not that generally

thought to be courage?

LACHES: Yes, certainly.

SOCRATES: Then, Laches, suppose that we first set about determining the nature of

courage, and in the second place proceed to enquire how the young men may attain this

quality by the help of studies and pursuits. Tell me, if you can, what is courage.

LACHES: Indeed, Socrates, I see no difficulty in answering; he is a man of courage who

does not run away, but remains at his post and fights against the enemy; there can be no

mistake about that.

SOCRATES: Very good, Laches; and yet I fear that I did not express myself clearly; and

therefore you have answered not the question which I intended to ask, but another.

LACHES: What do you mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I will endeavour to explain; you would call a man courageous who remains

at his post, and fights with the enemy?

LACHES: Certainly I should.

SOCRATES: And so should I; but what would you say of another man, who fights flying,

instead of remaining?

LACHES: How flying?

SOCRATES: Why, as the Scythians are said to fight, flying as well as pursuing; and as

Homer says in praise of the horses of Aeneas, that they knew 'how to pursue, and fly

quickly hither and thither'; and he passes an encomium on Aeneas himself, as having a

knowledge of fear or flight, and calls him 'an author of fear or flight.'

LACHES: Yes, Socrates, and there Homer is right: for he was speaking of chariots, as

you were speaking of the Scythian cavalry, who have that way of fighting; but the heavyarmed

Greek fights, as I say, remaining in his rank.

SOCRATES: And yet, Laches, you must except the Lacedaemonians at Plataea, who,

when they came upon the light shields of the Persians, are said not to have been willing

to stand and fight, and to have fled; but when the ranks of the Persians were broken,

they turned upon them like cavalry, and won the battle of Plataea.

LACHES: That is true.

SOCRATES: That was my meaning when I said that I was to blame in having put my

question badly, and that this was the reason of your answering badly. For I meant to ask

you not only about the courage of heavy-armed soldiers, but about the courage of

cavalry and every other style of soldier; and not only who are courageous in war, but

who are courageous in perils by sea, and who in disease, or in poverty, or again in

politics, are courageous; and not only who are courageous against pain or fear, but

mighty to contend against desires and pleasures, either fixed in their rank or turning

upon their enemy. There is this sort of courage—is there not, Laches?

LACHES: Certainly, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And all these are courageous, but some have courage in pleasures, and

some in pains: some in desires, and some in fears, and some are cowards under the

same conditions, as I should imagine.

LACHES: Very true.

SOCRATES: Now I was asking about courage and cowardice in general. And I will begin

with courage, and once more ask, What is that common quality, which is the same in all

these cases, and which is called courage? Do you now understand what I mean?

LACHES: Not over well.

SOCRATES: I mean this: As I might ask what is that quality which is called quickness,

and which is found in running, in playing the lyre, in speaking, in learning, and in many

other similar actions, or rather which we possess in nearly every action that is worth

mentioning of arms, legs, mouth, voice, mind;—would you not apply the term quickness

to all of them?

LACHES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: And suppose I were to be asked by some one: What is that common quality,

Socrates, which, in all these uses of the word, you call quickness? I should say the

quality which accomplishes much in a little time—whether in running, speaking, or in

any other sort of action.

LACHES: You would be quite correct.

SOCRATES: And now, Laches, do you try and tell me in like manner, What is that

common quality which is called courage, and which includes all the various uses of the

term when applied both to pleasure and pain, and in all the cases to which I was just

now referring?

LACHES: I should say that courage is a sort of endurance of the soul, if I am to speak of

the universal nature which pervades them all.

SOCRATES: But that is what we must do if we are to answer the question. And yet I

cannot say that every kind of endurance is, in my opinion, to be deemed courage. Hear

my reason: I am sure, Laches, that you would consider courage to be a very noble

quality.

LACHES: Most noble, certainly.

SOCRATES: And you would say that a wise endurance is also good and noble?

LACHES: Very noble.

SOCRATES: But what would you say of a foolish endurance? Is not that, on the other

hand, to be regarded as evil and hurtful?

LACHES: True.

SOCRATES: And is anything noble which is evil and hurtful?

LACHES: I ought not to say that, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then you would not admit that sort of endurance to be courage— for it is

not noble, but courage is noble?

LACHES: You are right.

SOCRATES: Then, according to you, only the wise endurance is courage?

LACHES: True.

SOCRATES: But as to the epithet 'wise,'—wise in what? In all things small as well as

great? For example, if a man shows the quality of endurance in spending his money

wisely, knowing that by spending he will acquire more in the end, do you call him

courageous?

LACHES: Assuredly not.

SOCRATES: Or, for example, if a man is a physician, and his son, or some patient of his,

has inflammation of the lungs, and begs that he may be allowed to eat or drink

something, and the other is firm and refuses; is that courage?

LACHES: No; that is not courage at all, any more than the last.

SOCRATES: Again, take the case of one who endures in war, and is willing to fight, and

wisely calculates and knows that others will help him, and that there will be fewer and

inferior men against him than there are with him; and suppose that he has also

advantages of position; would you say of such a one who endures with all this wisdom

and preparation, that he, or some man in the opposing army who is in the opposite

circumstances to these and yet endures and remains at his post, is the braver?

LACHES: I should say that the latter, Socrates, was the braver.

SOCRATES: But, surely, this is a foolish endurance in comparison with the other?

LACHES: That is true.

SOCRATES: Then you would say that he who in an engagement of cavalry endures,

having the knowledge of horsemanship, is not so courageous as he who endures, having

no such knowledge?

LACHES: So I should say.

SOCRATES: And he who endures, having a knowledge of the use of the sling, or the

bow, or of any other art, is not so courageous as he who endures, not having such a

knowledge?

LACHES: True.

SOCRATES: And he who descends into a well, and dives, and holds out in this or any

similar action, having no knowledge of diving, or the like, is, as you would say, more

courageous than those who have this knowledge?

LACHES: Why, Socrates, what else can a man say?

SOCRATES: Nothing, if that be what he thinks.

LACHES: But that is what I do think.

SOCRATES: And yet men who thus run risks and endure are foolish, Laches, in

comparison of those who do the same things, having the skill to do them.

LACHES: That is true.

SOCRATES: But foolish boldness and endurance appeared before to be base and hurtful

to us.

LACHES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: Whereas courage was acknowledged to be a noble quality.

LACHES: True.

SOCRATES: And now on the contrary we are saying that the foolish endurance, which

was before held in dishonour, is courage.

LACHES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And are we right in saying so?

LACHES: Indeed, Socrates, I am sure that we are not right.

SOCRATES: Then according to your statement, you and I, Laches, are not attuned to the

Dorian mode, which is a harmony of words and deeds; for our deeds are not in

accordance with our words. Any one would say that we had courage who saw us in

action, but not, I imagine, he who heard us talking about courage just now.

LACHES: That is most true.

SOCRATES: And is this condition of ours satisfactory?

LACHES: Quite the reverse.

SOCRATES: Suppose, however, that we admit the principle of which we are speaking to

a certain extent.

LACHES: To what extent and what principle do you mean?

SOCRATES: The principle of endurance. We too must endure and persevere in the

enquiry, and then courage will not laugh at our faint-heartedness in searching for

courage; which after all may, very likely, be endurance.

LACHES: I am ready to go on, Socrates; and yet I am unused to investigations of this

sort. But the spirit of controversy has been aroused in me by what has been said; and I

am really grieved at being thus unable to express my meaning. For I fancy that I do

know the nature of courage; but, somehow or other, she has slipped away from me, and

I cannot get hold of her and tell her nature.

SOCRATES: But, my dear friend, should not the good sportsman follow the track, and

not be lazy?

LACHES: Certainly, he should.

SOCRATES: And shall we invite Nicias to join us? he may be better at the sport than we

are. What do you say?

LACHES: I should like that.

SOCRATES: Come then, Nicias, and do what you can to help your friends, who are

tossing on the waves of argument, and at the last gasp: you see our extremity, and may

save us and also settle your own opinion, if you will tell us what you think about

courage.

NICIAS: I have been thinking, Socrates, that you and Laches are not defining courage in

the right way; for you have forgotten an excellent saying which I have heard from your

own lips.

SOCRATES: What is it, Nicias?

NICIAS: I have often heard you say that 'Every man is good in that in which he is wise,

and bad in that in which he is unwise.'

SOCRATES: That is certainly true, Nicias.

NICIAS: And therefore if the brave man is good, he is also wise.

SOCRATES: Do you hear him, Laches?

LACHES: Yes, I hear him, but I do not very well understand him.

SOCRATES: I think that I understand him; and he appears to me to mean that courage

is a sort of wisdom.

LACHES: What can he possibly mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: That is a question which you must ask of himself.

LACHES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Tell him then, Nicias, what you mean by this wisdom; for you surely do not

mean the wisdom which plays the flute?

NICIAS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Nor the wisdom which plays the lyre?

NICIAS: No.

SOCRATES: But what is this knowledge then, and of what?

LACHES: I think that you put the question to him very well, Socrates; and I would like

him to say what is the nature of this knowledge or wisdom.

NICIAS: I mean to say, Laches, that courage is the knowledge of that which inspires fear

or confidence in war, or in anything.

LACHES: How strangely he is talking, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Why do you say so, Laches?

LACHES: Why, surely courage is one thing, and wisdom another.

SOCRATES: That is just what Nicias denies.

LACHES: Yes, that is what he denies; but he is so silly.

SOCRATES: Suppose that we instruct instead of abusing him?

NICIAS: Laches does not want to instruct me, Socrates; but having been proved to be

talking nonsense himself, he wants to prove that I have been doing the same.

LACHES: Very true, Nicias; and you are talking nonsense, as I shall endeavour to show.

Let me ask you a question: Do not physicians know the dangers of disease? or do the

courageous know them? or are the physicians the same as the courageous?

NICIAS: Not at all.

LACHES: No more than the husbandmen who know the dangers of husbandry, or than

other craftsmen, who have a knowledge of that which inspires them with fear or

confidence in their own arts, and yet they are not courageous a whit the more for that.

SOCRATES: What is Laches saying, Nicias? He appears to be saying something of

importance.

NICIAS: Yes, he is saying something, but it is not true.

SOCRATES: How so?

NICIAS: Why, because he does not see that the physician's knowledge only extends to

the nature of health and disease: he can tell the sick man no more than this. Do you

imagine, Laches, that the physician knows whether health or disease is the more terrible

to a man? Had not many a man better never get up from a sick bed? I should like to

know whether you think that life is always better than death. May not death often be the

better of the two?

LACHES: Yes certainly so in my opinion.

NICIAS: And do you think that the same things are terrible to those who had better die,

and to those who had better live?

LACHES: Certainly not.

NICIAS: And do you suppose that the physician or any other artist knows this, or any

one indeed, except he who is skilled in the grounds of fear and hope? And him I call the

courageous.

SOCRATES: Do you understand his meaning, Laches?

LACHES: Yes; I suppose that, in his way of speaking, the soothsayers are courageous.

For who but one of them can know to whom to die or to live is better? And yet Nicias,

would you allow that you are yourself a soothsayer, or are you neither a soothsayer nor

courageous?

NICIAS: What! do you mean to say that the soothsayer ought to know the grounds of

hope or fear?

LACHES: Indeed I do: who but he?

NICIAS: Much rather I should say he of whom I speak; for the soothsayer ought to know

only the signs of things that are about to come to pass, whether death or disease, or loss

of property, or victory, or defeat in war, or in any sort of contest; but to whom the

suffering or not suffering of these things will be for the best, can no more be decided by

the soothsayer than by one who is no soothsayer.

LACHES: I cannot understand what Nicias would be at, Socrates; for he represents the

courageous man as neither a soothsayer, nor a physician, nor in any other character,

unless he means to say that he is a god. My opinion is that he does not like honestly to

confess that he is talking nonsense, but that he shuffles up and down in order to conceal

the difficulty into which he has got himself. You and I, Socrates, might have practised a

similar shuffle just now, if we had only wanted to avoid the appearance of inconsistency.

And if we had been arguing in a court of law there might have been reason in so doing;

but why should a man deck himself out with vain words at a meeting of friends such as

this?

SOCRATES: I quite agree with you, Laches, that he should not. But perhaps Nicias is

serious, and not merely talking for the sake of talking. Let us ask him just to explain

what he means, and if he has reason on his side we will agree with him; if not, we will

instruct him.

LACHES: Do you, Socrates, if you like, ask him: I think that I have asked enough.

SOCRATES: I do not see why I should not; and my question will do for both of us.

LACHES: Very good.

SOCRATES: Then tell me, Nicias, or rather tell us, for Laches and I are partners in the

argument: Do you mean to affirm that courage is the knowledge of the grounds of hope

and fear?

NICIAS: I do.

SOCRATES: And not every man has this knowledge; the physician and the soothsayer

have it not; and they will not be courageous unless they acquire it—that is what you were

saying?

NICIAS: I was.

SOCRATES: Then this is certainly not a thing which every pig would know, as the

proverb says, and therefore he could not be courageous.

NICIAS: I think not.

SOCRATES: Clearly not, Nicias; not even such a big pig as the Crommyonian sow would

be called by you courageous. And this I say not as a joke, but because I think that he who

assents to your doctrine, that courage is the knowledge of the grounds of fear and hope,

cannot allow that any wild beast is courageous, unless he admits that a lion, or a

leopard, or perhaps a boar, or any other animal, has such a degree of wisdom that he

knows things which but a few human beings ever know by reason of their difficulty. He

who takes your view of courage must affirm that a lion, and a stag, and a bull, and a

monkey, have equally little pretensions to courage.

LACHES: Capital, Socrates; by the gods, that is truly good. And I hope, Nicias, that you

will tell us whether these animals, which we all admit to be courageous, are really wiser

than mankind; or whether you will have the boldness, in the face of universal opinion, to

deny their courage.

NICIAS: Why, Laches, I do not call animals or any other things which have no fear of

dangers, because they are ignorant of them, courageous, but only fearless and senseless.

Do you imagine that I should call little children courageous, which fear no dangers

because they know none? There is a difference, to my way of thinking, between

fearlessness and courage. I am of opinion that thoughtful courage is a quality possessed

by very few, but that rashness and boldness, and fearlessness, which has no forethought,

are very common qualities possessed by many men, many women, many children, many

animals. And you, and men in general, call by the term 'courageous' actions which I call

rash;—my courageous actions are wise actions.

LACHES: Behold, Socrates, how admirably, as he thinks, he dresses himself out in

words, while seeking to deprive of the honour of courage those whom all the world

acknowledges to be courageous.

NICIAS: Not so, Laches, but do not be alarmed; for I am quite willing to say of you and

also of Lamachus, and of many other Athenians, that you are courageous and therefore

wise.

LACHES: I could answer that; but I would not have you cast in my teeth that I am a

haughty Aexonian.

SOCRATES: Do not answer him, Laches; I rather fancy that you are not aware of the

source from which his wisdom is derived. He has got all this from my friend Damon, and

Damon is always with Prodicus, who, of all the Sophists, is considered to be the best

puller to pieces of words of this sort.

LACHES: Yes, Socrates; and the examination of such niceties is a much more suitable

employment for a Sophist than for a great statesman whom the city chooses to preside

over her.

SOCRATES: Yes, my sweet friend, but a great statesman is likely to have a great

intelligence. And I think that the view which is implied in Nicias' definition of courage is

worthy of examination.

LACHES: Then examine for yourself, Socrates.

SOCRATES: That is what I am going to do, my dear friend. Do not, however, suppose I

shall let you out of the partnership; for I shall expect you to apply your mind, and join

with me in the consideration of the question.

LACHES: I will if you think that I ought.

SOCRATES: Yes, I do; but I must beg of you, Nicias, to begin again. You remember that

we originally considered courage to be a part of virtue.

NICIAS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And you yourself said that it was a part; and there were many other parts,

all of which taken together are called virtue.

NICIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Do you agree with me about the parts? For I say that justice, temperance,

and the like, are all of them parts of virtue as well as courage. Would you not say the

same?

NICIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Well then, so far we are agreed. And now let us proceed a step, and try to

arrive at a similar agreement about the fearful and the hopeful: I do not want you to be

thinking one thing and myself another. Let me then tell you my own opinion, and if I am

wrong you shall set me right: in my opinion the terrible and the hopeful are the things

which do or do not create fear, and fear is not of the present, nor of the past, but is of

future and expected evil. Do you not agree to that, Laches?

LACHES: Yes, Socrates, entirely.

SOCRATES: That is my view, Nicias; the terrible things, as I should say, are the evils

which are future; and the hopeful are the good or not evil things which are future. Do

you or do you not agree with me?

NICIAS: I agree.

SOCRATES: And the knowledge of these things you call courage?

NICIAS: Precisely.

SOCRATES: And now let me see whether you agree with Laches and myself as to a third

point.

NICIAS: What is that?

SOCRATES: I will tell you. He and I have a notion that there is not one knowledge or

science of the past, another of the present, a third of what is likely to be best and what

will be best in the future; but that of all three there is one science only: for example,

there is one science of medicine which is concerned with the inspection of health equally

in all times, present, past, and future; and one science of husbandry in like manner,

which is concerned with the productions of the earth in all times. As to the art of the

general, you yourselves will be my witnesses that he has an excellent foreknowledge of

the future, and that he claims to be the master and not the servant of the soothsayer,

because he knows better what is happening or is likely to happen in war: and

accordingly the law places the soothsayer under the general, and not the general under

the soothsayer. Am I not correct in saying so, Laches?

LACHES: Quite correct.

SOCRATES: And do you, Nicias, also acknowledge that the same science has

understanding of the same things, whether future, present, or past?

NICIAS: Yes, indeed Socrates; that is my opinion.

SOCRATES: And courage, my friend, is, as you say, a knowledge of the fearful and of the

hopeful?

NICIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the fearful, and the hopeful, are admitted to be future goods and future

evils?

NICIAS: True.

SOCRATES: And the same science has to do with the same things in the future or at any

time?

NICIAS: That is true.

SOCRATES: Then courage is not the science which is concerned with the fearful and

hopeful, for they are future only; courage, like the other sciences, is concerned not only

with good and evil of the future, but of the present and past, and of any time?

NICIAS: That, as I suppose, is true.

SOCRATES: Then the answer which you have given, Nicias, includes only a third part of

courage; but our question extended to the whole nature of courage: and according to

your view, that is, according to your present view, courage is not only the knowledge of

the hopeful and the fearful, but seems to include nearly every good and evil without

reference to time. What do you say to that alteration in your statement?

NICIAS: I agree, Socrates.

SOCRATES: But then, my dear friend, if a man knew all good and evil, and how they are,

and have been, and will be produced, would he not be perfect, and wanting in no virtue,

whether justice, or temperance, or holiness? He would possess them all, and he would

know which were dangers and which were not, and guard against them whether they

were supernatural or natural; and he would provide the good, as he would know how to

deal both with gods or men.

NICIAS: I think, Socrates, that there is a great deal of truth in what you say.

SOCRATES: But then, Nicias, courage, according to this new definition of yours, instead

of being a part of virtue only, will be all virtue?

NICIAS: It would seem so.

SOCRATES: But we were saying that courage is one of the parts of virtue?

NICIAS: Yes, that was what we were saying.

SOCRATES: And that is in contradiction with our present view?

NICIAS: That appears to be the case.

SOCRATES: Then, Nicias, we have not discovered what courage is.

NICIAS: We have not.

LACHES: And yet, friend Nicias, I imagined that you would have made the discovery,

when you were so contemptuous of the answers which I made to Socrates. I had very

great hopes that you would have been enlightened by the wisdom of Damon.

NICIAS: I perceive, Laches, that you think nothing of having displayed your ignorance

of the nature of courage, but you look only to see whether I have not made a similar

display; and if we are both equally ignorant of the things which a man who is good for

anything should know, that, I suppose, will be of no consequence. You certainly appear

to me very like the rest of the world, looking at your neighbour and not at yourself. I am

of opinion that enough has been said on the subject which we have been discussing; and

if anything has been imperfectly said, that may be hereafter corrected by the help of

Damon, whom you think to laugh down, although you have never seen him, and with

the help of others. And when I am satisfied myself, I will freely impart my satisfaction to

you, for I think that you are very much in want of knowledge.

LACHES: You are a philosopher, Nicias; of that I am aware: nevertheless I would

recommend Lysimachus and Melesias not to take you and me as advisers about the

education of their children; but, as I said at first, they should ask Socrates and not let

him off; if my own sons were old enough, I would have asked him myself.

NICIAS: To that I quite agree, if Socrates is willing to take them under his charge. I

should not wish for any one else to be the tutor of Niceratus. But I observe that when I

mention the matter to him he recommends to me some other tutor and refuses himself.

Perhaps he may be more ready to listen to you, Lysimachus.

LYSIMACHUS: He ought, Nicias: for certainly I would do things for him which I would

not do for many others. What do you say, Socrates—will you comply? And are you ready

to give assistance in the improvement of the youths?

SOCRATES: Indeed, Lysimachus, I should be very wrong in refusing to aid in the

improvement of anybody. And if I had shown in this conversation that I had a

knowledge which Nicias and Laches have not, then I admit that you would be right in

inviting me to perform this duty; but as we are all in the same perplexity, why should

one of us be preferred to another? I certainly think that no one should; and under these

circumstances, let me offer you a piece of advice (and this need not go further than

ourselves). I maintain, my friends, that every one of us should seek out the best teacher

whom he can find, first for ourselves, who are greatly in need of one, and then for the

youth, regardless of expense or anything. But I cannot advise that we remain as we are.

And if any one laughs at us for going to school at our age, I would quote to them the

authority of Homer, who says, that

'Modesty is not good for a needy man.'

Let us then, regardless of what may be said of us, make the education of the youths our

own education.

LYSIMACHUS: I like your proposal, Socrates; and as I am the oldest, I am also the most

eager to go to school with the boys. Let me beg a favour of you: Come to my house tomorrow

at dawn, and we will advise about these matters. For the present, let us make an

end of the conversation.

SOCRATES: I will come to you to-morrow, Lysimachus, as you propose, God willing.

Lysis, or Friendship

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator, Menexenus,

Hippothales, Lysis, Ctesippus.

SCENE: A newly-erected Palaestra outside the walls of Athens.

I was going from the Academy straight to the Lyceum, intending to take the outer road,

which is close under the wall. When I came to the postern gate of the city, which is by

the fountain of Panops, I fell in with Hippothales, the son of Hieronymus, and Ctesippus

the Paeanian, and a company of young men who were standing with them. Hippothales,

seeing me approach, asked whence I came and whither I was going.

I am going, I replied, from the Academy straight to the Lyceum.

Then come straight to us, he said, and put in here; you may as well.

Who are you, I said; and where am I to come?

He showed me an enclosed space and an open door over against the wall. And there, he

said, is the building at which we all meet: and a goodly company we are.

And what is this building, I asked; and what sort of entertainment have you?

The building, he replied, is a newly erected Palaestra; and the entertainment is generally

conversation, to which you are welcome.

Thank you, I said; and is there any teacher there?

Yes, he said, your old friend and admirer, Miccus.

Indeed, I replied; he is a very eminent professor.

Are you disposed, he said, to go with me and see them?

Yes, I said; but I should like to know first, what is expected of me, and who is the

favourite among you?

Some persons have one favourite, Socrates, and some another, he said.

And who is yours? I asked: tell me that, Hippothales.

At this he blushed; and I said to him, O Hippothales, thou son of Hieronymus! do not

say that you are, or that you are not, in love; the confession is too late; for I see that you

are not only in love, but are already far gone in your love. Simple and foolish as I am, the

Gods have given me the power of understanding affections of this kind.

Whereupon he blushed more and more.

Ctesippus said: I like to see you blushing, Hippothales, and hesitating to tell Socrates the

name; when, if he were with you but for a very short time, you would have plagued him

to death by talking about nothing else. Indeed, Socrates, he has literally deafened us,

and stopped our ears with the praises of Lysis; and if he is a little intoxicated, there is

every likelihood that we may have our sleep murdered with a cry of Lysis. His

performances in prose are bad enough, but nothing at all in comparison with his verse;

and when he drenches us with his poems and other compositions, it is really too bad;

and worse still is his manner of singing them to his love; he has a voice which is truly

appalling, and we cannot help hearing him: and now having a question put to him by

you, behold he is blushing.

Who is Lysis? I said: I suppose that he must be young; for the name does not recall any

one to me.

Why, he said, his father being a very well-known man, he retains his patronymic, and is

not as yet commonly called by his own name; but, although you do not know his name, I

am sure that you must know his face, for that is quite enough to distinguish him.

But tell me whose son he is, I said.

He is the eldest son of Democrates, of the deme of Aexone.

Ah, Hippothales, I said; what a noble and really perfect love you have found! I wish that

you would favour me with the exhibition which you have been making to the rest of the

company, and then I shall be able to judge whether you know what a lover ought to say

about his love, either to the youth himself, or to others.

Nay, Socrates, he said; you surely do not attach any importance to what he is saying.

Do you mean, I said, that you disown the love of the person whom he says that you love?

No; but I deny that I make verses or address compositions to him.

He is not in his right mind, said Ctesippus; he is talking nonsense, and is stark mad.

O Hippothales, I said, if you have ever made any verses or songs in honour of your

favourite, I do not want to hear them; but I want to know the purport of them, that I

may be able to judge of your mode of approaching your fair one.

Ctesippus will be able to tell you, he said; for if, as he avers, the sound of my words is

always dinning in his ears, he must have a very accurate knowledge and recollection of

them.

Yes, indeed, said Ctesippus; I know only too well; and very ridiculous the tale is: for

although he is a lover, and very devotedly in love, he has nothing particular to talk about

to his beloved which a child might not say. Now is not that ridiculous? He can only

speak of the wealth of Democrates, which the whole city celebrates, and grandfather

Lysis, and the other ancestors of the youth, and their stud of horses, and their victory at

the Pythian games, and at the Isthmus, and at Nemea with four horses and single

horses—these are the tales which he composes and repeats. And there is greater twaddle

still. Only the day before yesterday he made a poem in which he described the

entertainment of Heracles, who was a connexion of the family, setting forth how in

virtue of this relationship he was hospitably received by an ancestor of Lysis; this

ancestor was himself begotten of Zeus by the daughter of the founder of the deme. And

these are the sort of old wives' tales which he sings and recites to us, and we are obliged

to listen to him.

When I heard this, I said: O ridiculous Hippothales! how can you be making and singing

hymns in honour of yourself before you have won?

But my songs and verses, he said, are not in honour of myself, Socrates.

You think not? I said.

Nay, but what do you think? he replied.

Most assuredly, I said, those songs are all in your own honour; for if you win your

beautiful love, your discourses and songs will be a glory to you, and may be truly

regarded as hymns of praise composed in honour of you who have conquered and won

such a love; but if he slips away from you, the more you have praised him, the more

ridiculous you will look at having lost this fairest and best of blessings; and therefore the

wise lover does not praise his beloved until he has won him, because he is afraid of

accidents. There is also another danger; the fair, when any one praises or magnifies

them, are filled with the spirit of pride and vain-glory. Do you not agree with me?

Yes, he said.

And the more vain-glorious they are, the more difficult is the capture of them?

I believe you.

What should you say of a hunter who frightened away his prey, and made the capture of

the animals which he is hunting more difficult?

He would be a bad hunter, undoubtedly.

Yes; and if, instead of soothing them, he were to infuriate them with words and songs,

that would show a great want of wit: do you not agree.

Yes.

And now reflect, Hippothales, and see whether you are not guilty of all these errors in

writing poetry. For I can hardly suppose that you will affirm a man to be a good poet

who injures himself by his poetry.

Assuredly not, he said; such a poet would be a fool. And this is the reason why I take you

into my counsels, Socrates, and I shall be glad of any further advice which you may have

to offer. Will you tell me by what words or actions I may become endeared to my love?

That is not easy to determine, I said; but if you will bring your love to me, and will let me

talk with him, I may perhaps be able to show you how to converse with him, instead of

singing and reciting in the fashion of which you are accused.

There will be no difficulty in bringing him, he replied; if you will only go with Ctesippus

into the Palaestra, and sit down and talk, I believe that he will come of his own accord;

for he is fond of listening, Socrates. And as this is the festival of the Hermaea, the young

men and boys are all together, and there is no separation between them. He will be sure

to come: but if he does not, Ctesippus with whom he is familiar, and whose relation

Menexenus is his great friend, shall call him.

That will be the way, I said. Thereupon I led Ctesippus into the Palaestra, and the rest

followed.

Upon entering we found that the boys had just been sacrificing; and this part of the

festival was nearly at an end. They were all in their white array, and games at dice were

going on among them. Most of them were in the outer court amusing themselves; but

some were in a corner of the Apodyterium playing at odd and even with a number of

dice, which they took out of little wicker baskets. There was also a circle of lookers-on;

among them was Lysis. He was standing with the other boys and youths, having a crown

upon his head, like a fair vision, and not less worthy of praise for his goodness than for

his beauty. We left them, and went over to the opposite side of the room, where, finding

a quiet place, we sat down; and then we began to talk. This attracted Lysis, who was

constantly turning round to look at us—he was evidently wanting to come to us. For a

time he hesitated and had not the courage to come alone; but first of all, his friend

Menexenus, leaving his play, entered the Palaestra from the court, and when he saw

Ctesippus and myself, was going to take a seat by us; and then Lysis, seeing him,

followed, and sat down by his side; and the other boys joined. I should observe that

Hippothales, when he saw the crowd, got behind them, where he thought that he would

be out of sight of Lysis, lest he should anger him; and there he stood and listened.

I turned to Menexenus, and said: Son of Demophon, which of you two youths is the

elder?

That is a matter of dispute between us, he said.

And which is the nobler? Is that also a matter of dispute?

Yes, certainly.

And another disputed point is, which is the fairer?

The two boys laughed.

I shall not ask which is the richer of the two, I said; for you are friends, are you not?

Certainly, they replied.

And friends have all things in common, so that one of you can be no richer than the

other, if you say truly that you are friends.

They assented. I was about to ask which was the juster of the two, and which was the

wiser of the two; but at this moment Menexenus was called away by some one who came

and said that the gymnastic-master wanted him. I supposed that he had to offer

sacrifice. So he went away, and I asked Lysis some more questions. I dare say, Lysis, I

said, that your father and mother love you very much.

Certainly, he said.

And they would wish you to be perfectly happy.

Yes.

But do you think that any one is happy who is in the condition of a slave, and who

cannot do what he likes?

I should think not indeed, he said.

And if your father and mother love you, and desire that you should be happy, no one can

doubt that they are very ready to promote your happiness.

Certainly, he replied.

And do they then permit you to do what you like, and never rebuke you or hinder you

from doing what you desire?

Yes, indeed, Socrates; there are a great many things which they hinder me from doing.

What do you mean? I said. Do they want you to be happy, and yet hinder you from doing

what you like? for example, if you want to mount one of your father's chariots, and take

the reins at a race, they will not allow you to do so—they will prevent you?

Certainly, he said, they will not allow me to do so.

Whom then will they allow?

There is a charioteer, whom my father pays for driving.

And do they trust a hireling more than you? and may he do what he likes with the

horses? and do they pay him for this?

They do.

But I dare say that you may take the whip and guide the mule-cart if you like;—they will

permit that?

Permit me! indeed they will not.

Then, I said, may no one use the whip to the mules?

Yes, he said, the muleteer.

And is he a slave or a free man?

A slave, he said.

And do they esteem a slave of more value than you who are their son? And do they

entrust their property to him rather than to you? and allow him to do what he likes,

when they prohibit you? Answer me now: Are you your own master, or do they not even

allow that?

Nay, he said; of course they do not allow it.

Then you have a master?

Yes, my tutor; there he is.

And is he a slave?

To be sure; he is our slave, he replied.

Surely, I said, this is a strange thing, that a free man should be governed by a slave. And

what does he do with you?

He takes me to my teachers.

You do not mean to say that your teachers also rule over you?

Of course they do.

Then I must say that your father is pleased to inflict many lords and masters on you. But

at any rate when you go home to your mother, she will let you have your own way, and

will not interfere with your happiness; her wool, or the piece of cloth which she is

weaving, are at your disposal: I am sure that there is nothing to hinder you from

touching her wooden spathe, or her comb, or any other of her spinning implements.

Nay, Socrates, he replied, laughing; not only does she hinder me, but I should be beaten

if I were to touch one of them.

Well, I said, this is amazing. And did you ever behave ill to your father or your mother?

No, indeed, he replied.

But why then are they so terribly anxious to prevent you from being happy, and doing as

you like?—keeping you all day long in subjection to another, and, in a word, doing

nothing which you desire; so that you have no good, as would appear, out of their great

possessions, which are under the control of anybody rather than of you, and have no use

of your own fair person, which is tended and taken care of by another; while you, Lysis,

are master of nobody, and can do nothing?

Why, he said, Socrates, the reason is that I am not of age.

I doubt whether that is the real reason, I said; for I should imagine that your father

Democrates, and your mother, do permit you to do many things already, and do not wait

until you are of age: for example, if they want anything read or written, you, I presume,

would be the first person in the house who is summoned by them.

Very true.

And you would be allowed to write or read the letters in any order which you please, or

to take up the lyre and tune the notes, and play with the fingers, or strike with the

plectrum, exactly as you please, and neither father nor mother would interfere with you.

That is true, he said.

Then what can be the reason, Lysis, I said, why they allow you to do the one and not the

other?

I suppose, he said, because I understand the one, and not the other.

Yes, my dear youth, I said, the reason is not any deficiency of years, but a deficiency of

knowledge; and whenever your father thinks that you are wiser than he is, he will

instantly commit himself and his possessions to you.

I think so.

Aye, I said; and about your neighbour, too, does not the same rule hold as about your

father? If he is satisfied that you know more of housekeeping than he does, will he

continue to administer his affairs himself, or will he commit them to you?

I think that he will commit them to me.

Will not the Athenian people, too, entrust their affairs to you when they see that you

have wisdom enough to manage them?

Yes.

And oh! let me put another case, I said: There is the great king, and he has an eldest son,

who is the Prince of Asia;—suppose that you and I go to him and establish to his

satisfaction that we are better cooks than his son, will he not entrust to us the

prerogative of making soup, and putting in anything that we like while the pot is boiling,

rather than to the Prince of Asia, who is his son?

To us, clearly.

And we shall be allowed to throw in salt by handfuls, whereas the son will not be allowed

to put in as much as he can take up between his fingers?

Of course.

Or suppose again that the son has bad eyes, will he allow him, or will he not allow him,

to touch his own eyes if he thinks that he has no knowledge of medicine?

He will not allow him.

Whereas, if he supposes us to have a knowledge of medicine, he will allow us to do what

we like with him—even to open the eyes wide and sprinkle ashes upon them, because he

supposes that we know what is best?

That is true.

And everything in which we appear to him to be wiser than himself or his son he will

commit to us?

That is very true, Socrates, he replied.

Then now, my dear Lysis, I said, you perceive that in things which we know every one

will trust us,—Hellenes and barbarians, men and women,—and we may do as we please

about them, and no one will like to interfere with us; we shall be free, and masters of

others; and these things will be really ours, for we shall be benefited by them. But in

things of which we have no understanding, no one will trust us to do as seems good to

us—they will hinder us as far as they can; and not only strangers, but father and mother,

and the friend, if there be one, who is dearer still, will also hinder us; and we shall be

subject to others; and these things will not be ours, for we shall not be benefited by

them. Do you agree?

He assented.

And shall we be friends to others, and will any others love us, in as far as we are useless

to them?

Certainly not.

Neither can your father or mother love you, nor can anybody love anybody else, in so far

as they are useless to them?

No.

And therefore, my boy, if you are wise, all men will be your friends and kindred, for you

will be useful and good; but if you are not wise, neither father, nor mother, nor kindred,

nor any one else, will be your friends. And in matters of which you have as yet no

knowledge, can you have any conceit of knowledge?

That is impossible, he replied.

And you, Lysis, if you require a teacher, have not yet attained to wisdom.

True.

And therefore you are not conceited, having nothing of which to be conceited.

Indeed, Socrates, I think not.

When I heard him say this, I turned to Hippothales, and was very nearly making a

blunder, for I was going to say to him: That is the way, Hippothales, in which you should

talk to your beloved, humbling and lowering him, and not as you do, puffing him up and

spoiling him. But I saw that he was in great excitement and confusion at what had been

said, and I remembered that, although he was in the neighbourhood, he did not want to

be seen by Lysis; so upon second thoughts I refrained.

In the meantime Menexenus came back and sat down in his place by Lysis; and Lysis, in

a childish and affectionate manner, whispered privately in my ear, so that Menexenus

should not hear: Do, Socrates, tell Menexenus what you have been telling me.

Suppose that you tell him yourself, Lysis, I replied; for I am sure that you were

attending.

Certainly, he replied.

Try, then, to remember the words, and be as exact as you can in repeating them to him,

and if you have forgotten anything, ask me again the next time that you see me.

I will be sure to do so, Socrates; but go on telling him something new, and let me hear,

as long as I am allowed to stay.

I certainly cannot refuse, I said, since you ask me; but then, as you know, Menexenus is

very pugnacious, and therefore you must come to the rescue if he attempts to upset me.

Yes, indeed, he said; he is very pugnacious, and that is the reason why I want you to

argue with him.

That I may make a fool of myself?

No, indeed, he said; but I want you to put him down.

That is no easy matter, I replied; for he is a terrible fellow—a pupil of Ctesippus. And

there is Ctesippus himself: do you see him?

Never mind, Socrates, you shall argue with him.

Well, I suppose that I must, I replied.

Hereupon Ctesippus complained that we were talking in secret, and keeping the feast to

ourselves.

I shall be happy, I said, to let you have a share. Here is Lysis, who does not understand

something that I was saying, and wants me to ask Menexenus, who, as he thinks, is

likely to know.

And why do you not ask him? he said.

Very well, I said, I will; and do you, Menexenus, answer. But first I must tell you that I

am one who from my childhood upward have set my heart upon a certain thing. All

people have their fancies; some desire horses, and others dogs; and some are fond of

gold, and others of honour. Now, I have no violent desire of any of these things; but I

have a passion for friends; and I would rather have a good friend than the best cock or

quail in the world: I would even go further, and say the best horse or dog. Yea, by the

dog of Egypt, I should greatly prefer a real friend to all the gold of Darius, or even to

Darius himself: I am such a lover of friends as that. And when I see you and Lysis, at

your early age, so easily possessed of this treasure, and so soon, he of you, and you of

him, I am amazed and delighted, seeing that I myself, although I am now advanced in

years, am so far from having made a similar acquisition, that I do not even know in what

way a friend is acquired. But I want to ask you a question about this, for you have

experience: tell me then, when one loves another, is the lover or the beloved the friend;

or may either be the friend?

Either may, I should think, be the friend of either.

Do you mean, I said, that if only one of them loves the other, they are mutual friends?

Yes, he said; that is my meaning.

But what if the lover is not loved in return? which is a very possible case.

Yes.

Or is, perhaps, even hated? which is a fancy which sometimes is entertained by lovers

respecting their beloved. Nothing can exceed their love; and yet they imagine either that

they are not loved in return, or that they are hated. Is not that true?

Yes, he said, quite true.

In that case, the one loves, and the other is loved?

Yes.

Then which is the friend of which? Is the lover the friend of the beloved, whether he be

loved in return, or hated; or is the beloved the friend; or is there no friendship at all on

either side, unless they both love one another?

There would seem to be none at all.

Then this notion is not in accordance with our previous one. We were saying that both

were friends, if one only loved; but now, unless they both love, neither is a friend.

That appears to be true.

Then nothing which does not love in return is beloved by a lover?

I think not.

Then they are not lovers of horses, whom the horses do not love in return; nor lovers of

quails, nor of dogs, nor of wine, nor of gymnastic exercises, who have no return of love;

no, nor of wisdom, unless wisdom loves them in return. Or shall we say that they do love

them, although they are not beloved by them; and that the poet was wrong who sings—

'Happy the man to whom his children are dear, and steeds having single hoofs, and dogs

of chase, and the stranger of another land'?

I do not think that he was wrong.

You think that he is right?

Yes.

Then, Menexenus, the conclusion is, that what is beloved, whether loving or hating, may

be dear to the lover of it: for example, very young children, too young to love, or even

hating their father or mother when they are punished by them, are never dearer to them

than at the time when they are being hated by them.

I think that what you say is true.

And, if so, not the lover, but the beloved, is the friend or dear one?

Yes.

And the hated one, and not the hater, is the enemy?

Clearly.

Then many men are loved by their enemies, and hated by their friends, and are the

friends of their enemies, and the enemies of their friends. Yet how absurd, my dear

friend, or indeed impossible is this paradox of a man being an enemy to his friend or a

friend to his enemy.

I quite agree, Socrates, in what you say.

But if this cannot be, the lover will be the friend of that which is loved?

True.

And the hater will be the enemy of that which is hated?

Certainly.

Yet we must acknowledge in this, as in the preceding instance, that a man may be the

friend of one who is not his friend, or who may be his enemy, when he loves that which

does not love him or which even hates him. And he may be the enemy of one who is not

his enemy, and is even his friend: for example, when he hates that which does not hate

him, or which even loves him.

That appears to be true.

But if the lover is not a friend, nor the beloved a friend, nor both together, what are we

to say? Whom are we to call friends to one another? Do any remain?

Indeed, Socrates, I cannot find any.

But, O Menexenus! I said, may we not have been altogether wrong in our conclusions?

I am sure that we have been wrong, Socrates, said Lysis. And he blushed as he spoke, the

words seeming to come from his lips involuntarily, because his whole mind was taken

up with the argument; there was no mistaking his attentive look while he was listening.

I was pleased at the interest which was shown by Lysis, and I wanted to give Menexenus

a rest, so I turned to him and said, I think, Lysis, that what you say is true, and that, if

we had been right, we should never have gone so far wrong; let us proceed no further in

this direction (for the road seems to be getting troublesome), but take the other path

into which we turned, and see what the poets have to say; for they are to us in a manner

the fathers and authors of wisdom, and they speak of friends in no light or trivial

manner, but God himself, as they say, makes them and draws them to one another; and

this they express, if I am not mistaken, in the following words:—

'God is ever drawing like towards like, and making them acquainted.'

I dare say that you have heard those words.

Yes, he said; I have.

And have you not also met with the treatises of philosophers who say that like must love

like? they are the people who argue and write about nature and the universe.

Very true, he replied.

And are they right in saying this?

They may be.

Perhaps, I said, about half, or possibly, altogether, right, if their meaning were rightly

apprehended by us. For the more a bad man has to do with a bad man, and the more

nearly he is brought into contact with him, the more he will be likely to hate him, for he

injures him; and injurer and injured cannot be friends. Is not that true?

Yes, he said.

Then one half of the saying is untrue, if the wicked are like one another?

That is true.

But the real meaning of the saying, as I imagine, is, that the good are like one another,

and friends to one another; and that the bad, as is often said of them, are never at unity

with one another or with themselves; for they are passionate and restless, and anything

which is at variance and enmity with itself is not likely to be in union or harmony with

any other thing. Do you not agree?

Yes, I do.

Then, my friend, those who say that the like is friendly to the like mean to intimate, if I

rightly apprehend them, that the good only is the friend of the good, and of him only;

but that the evil never attains to any real friendship, either with good or evil. Do you

agree?

He nodded assent.

Then now we know how to answer the question 'Who are friends?' for the argument

declares 'That the good are friends.'

Yes, he said, that is true.

Yes, I replied; and yet I am not quite satisfied with this answer. By heaven, and shall I

tell you what I suspect? I will. Assuming that like, inasmuch as he is like, is the friend of

like, and useful to him—or rather let me try another way of putting the matter: Can like

do any good or harm to like which he could not do to himself, or suffer anything from

his like which he would not suffer from himself? And if neither can be of any use to the

other, how can they be loved by one another? Can they now?

They cannot.

And can he who is not loved be a friend?

Certainly not.

But say that the like is not the friend of the like in so far as he is like; still the good may

be the friend of the good in so far as he is good?

True.

But then again, will not the good, in so far as he is good, be sufficient for himself?

Certainly he will. And he who is sufficient wants nothing— that is implied in the word

sufficient.

Of course not.

And he who wants nothing will desire nothing?

He will not.

Neither can he love that which he does not desire?

He cannot.

And he who loves not is not a lover or friend?

Clearly not.

What place then is there for friendship, if, when absent, good men have no need of one

another (for even when alone they are sufficient for themselves), and when present have

no use of one another? How can such persons ever be induced to value one another?

They cannot.

And friends they cannot be, unless they value one another?

Very true.

But see now, Lysis, whether we are not being deceived in all this—are we not indeed

entirely wrong?

How so? he replied.

Have I not heard some one say, as I just now recollect, that the like is the greatest enemy

of the like, the good of the good?—Yes, and he quoted the authority of Hesiod, who says:

'Potter quarrels with potter, bard with bard, Beggar with beggar;'

and of all other things he affirmed, in like manner, 'That of necessity the most like are

most full of envy, strife, and hatred of one another, and the most unlike, of friendship.

For the poor man is compelled to be the friend of the rich, and the weak requires the aid

of the strong, and the sick man of the physician; and every one who is ignorant, has to

love and court him who knows.' And indeed he went on to say in grandiloquent

language, that the idea of friendship existing between similars is not the truth, but the

very reverse of the truth, and that the most opposed are the most friendly; for that

everything desires not like but that which is most unlike: for example, the dry desires

the moist, the cold the hot, the bitter the sweet, the sharp the blunt, the void the full, the

full the void, and so of all other things; for the opposite is the food of the opposite,

whereas like receives nothing from like. And I thought that he who said this was a

charming man, and that he spoke well. What do the rest of you say?

I should say, at first hearing, that he is right, said Menexenus.

Then we are to say that the greatest friendship is of opposites?

Exactly.

Yes, Menexenus; but will not that be a monstrous answer? and will not the all-wise

eristics be down upon us in triumph, and ask, fairly enough, whether love is not the very

opposite of hate; and what answer shall we make to them—must we not admit that they

speak the truth?

We must.

They will then proceed to ask whether the enemy is the friend of the friend, or the friend

the friend of the enemy?

Neither, he replied.

Well, but is a just man the friend of the unjust, or the temperate of the intemperate, or

the good of the bad?

I do not see how that is possible.

And yet, I said, if friendship goes by contraries, the contraries must be friends.

They must.

Then neither like and like nor unlike and unlike are friends.

I suppose not.

And yet there is a further consideration: may not all these notions of friendship be

erroneous? but may not that which is neither good nor evil still in some cases be the

friend of the good?

How do you mean? he said.

Why really, I said, the truth is that I do not know; but my head is dizzy with thinking of

the argument, and therefore I hazard the conjecture, that 'the beautiful is the friend,' as

the old proverb says. Beauty is certainly a soft, smooth, slippery thing, and therefore of a

nature which easily slips in and permeates our souls. For I affirm that the good is the

beautiful. You will agree to that?

Yes.

This I say from a sort of notion that what is neither good nor evil is the friend of the

beautiful and the good, and I will tell you why I am inclined to think so: I assume that

there are three principles—the good, the bad, and that which is neither good nor bad.

You would agree—would you not?

I agree.

And neither is the good the friend of the good, nor the evil of the evil, nor the good of the

evil;—these alternatives are excluded by the previous argument; and therefore, if there

be such a thing as friendship or love at all, we must infer that what is neither good nor

evil must be the friend, either of the good, or of that which is neither good nor evil, for

nothing can be the friend of the bad.

True.

But neither can like be the friend of like, as we were just now saying.

True.

And if so, that which is neither good nor evil can have no friend which is neither good

nor evil.

Clearly not.

Then the good alone is the friend of that only which is neither good nor evil.

That may be assumed to be certain.

And does not this seem to put us in the right way? Just remark, that the body which is in

health requires neither medical nor any other aid, but is well enough; and the healthy

man has no love of the physician, because he is in health.

He has none.

But the sick loves him, because he is sick?

Certainly.

And sickness is an evil, and the art of medicine a good and useful thing?

Yes.

But the human body, regarded as a body, is neither good nor evil?

True.

And the body is compelled by reason of disease to court and make friends of the art of

medicine?

Yes.

Then that which is neither good nor evil becomes the friend of good, by reason of the

presence of evil?

So we may infer.

And clearly this must have happened before that which was neither good nor evil had

become altogether corrupted with the element of evil—if itself had become evil it would

not still desire and love the good; for, as we were saying, the evil cannot be the friend of

the good.

Impossible.

Further, I must observe that some substances are assimilated when others are present

with them; and there are some which are not assimilated: take, for example, the case of

an ointment or colour which is put on another substance.

Very good.

In such a case, is the substance which is anointed the same as the colour or ointment?

What do you mean? he said.

This is what I mean: Suppose that I were to cover your auburn locks with white lead,

would they be really white, or would they only appear to be white?

They would only appear to be white, he replied.

And yet whiteness would be present in them?

True.

But that would not make them at all the more white, notwithstanding the presence of

white in them—they would not be white any more than black?

No.

But when old age infuses whiteness into them, then they become assimilated, and are

white by the presence of white.

Certainly.

Now I want to know whether in all cases a substance is assimilated by the presence of

another substance; or must the presence be after a peculiar sort?

The latter, he said.

Then that which is neither good nor evil may be in the presence of evil, but not as yet

evil, and that has happened before now?

Yes.

And when anything is in the presence of evil, not being as yet evil, the presence of good

arouses the desire of good in that thing; but the presence of evil, which makes a thing

evil, takes away the desire and friendship of the good; for that which was once both good

and evil has now become evil only, and the good was supposed to have no friendship

with the evil?

None.

And therefore we say that those who are already wise, whether Gods or men, are no

longer lovers of wisdom; nor can they be lovers of wisdom who are ignorant to the

extent of being evil, for no evil or ignorant person is a lover of wisdom. There remain

those who have the misfortune to be ignorant, but are not yet hardened in their

ignorance, or void of understanding, and do not as yet fancy that they know what they

do not know: and therefore those who are the lovers of wisdom are as yet neither good

nor bad. But the bad do not love wisdom any more than the good; for, as we have

already seen, neither is unlike the friend of unlike, nor like of like. You remember that?

Yes, they both said.

And so, Lysis and Menexenus, we have discovered the nature of friendship— there can

be no doubt of it: Friendship is the love which by reason of the presence of evil the

neither good nor evil has of the good, either in the soul, or in the body, or anywhere.

They both agreed and entirely assented, and for a moment I rejoiced and was satisfied

like a huntsman just holding fast his prey. But then a most unaccountable suspicion

came across me, and I felt that the conclusion was untrue. I was pained, and said, Alas!

Lysis and Menexenus, I am afraid that we have been grasping at a shadow only.

Why do you say so? said Menexenus.

I am afraid, I said, that the argument about friendship is false: arguments, like men, are

often pretenders.

How do you mean? he asked.

Well, I said; look at the matter in this way: a friend is the friend of some one; is he not?

Certainly he is.

And has he a motive and object in being a friend, or has he no motive and object?

He has a motive and object.

And is the object which makes him a friend, dear to him, or neither dear nor hateful to

him?

I do not quite follow you, he said.

I do not wonder at that, I said. But perhaps, if I put the matter in another way, you will

be able to follow me, and my own meaning will be clearer to myself. The sick man, as I

was just now saying, is the friend of the physician—is he not?

Yes.

And he is the friend of the physician because of disease, and for the sake of health?

Yes.

And disease is an evil?

Certainly.

And what of health? I said. Is that good or evil, or neither?

Good, he replied.

And we were saying, I believe, that the body being neither good nor evil, because of

disease, that is to say because of evil, is the friend of medicine, and medicine is a good:

and medicine has entered into this friendship for the sake of health, and health is a

good.

True.

And is health a friend, or not a friend?

A friend.

And disease is an enemy?

Yes.

Then that which is neither good nor evil is the friend of the good because of the evil and

hateful, and for the sake of the good and the friend?

Clearly.

Then the friend is a friend for the sake of the friend, and because of the enemy?

That is to be inferred.

Then at this point, my boys, let us take heed, and be on our guard against deceptions. I

will not again repeat that the friend is the friend of the friend, and the like of the like,

which has been declared by us to be an impossibility; but, in order that this new

statement may not delude us, let us attentively examine another point, which I will

proceed to explain: Medicine, as we were saying, is a friend, or dear to us for the sake of

health?

Yes.

And health is also dear?

Certainly.

And if dear, then dear for the sake of something?

Yes.

And surely this object must also be dear, as is implied in our previous admissions?

Yes.

And that something dear involves something else dear?

Yes.

But then, proceeding in this way, shall we not arrive at some first principle of friendship

or dearness which is not capable of being referred to any other, for the sake of which, as

we maintain, all other things are dear, and, having there arrived, we shall stop?

True.

My fear is that all those other things, which, as we say, are dear for the sake of another,

are illusions and deceptions only, but where that first principle is, there is the true ideal

of friendship. Let me put the matter thus: Suppose the case of a great treasure (this may

be a son, who is more precious to his father than all his other treasures); would not the

father, who values his son above all things, value other things also for the sake of his

son? I mean, for instance, if he knew that his son had drunk hemlock, and the father

thought that wine would save him, he would value the wine?

He would.

And also the vessel which contains the wine?

Certainly.

But does he therefore value the three measures of wine, or the earthen vessel which

contains them, equally with his son? Is not this rather the true state of the case? All his

anxiety has regard not to the means which are provided for the sake of an object, but to

the object for the sake of which they are provided. And although we may often say that

gold and silver are highly valued by us, that is not the truth; for there is a further object,

whatever it may be, which we value most of all, and for the sake of which gold and all

our other possessions are acquired by us. Am I not right?

Yes, certainly.

And may not the same be said of the friend? That which is only dear to us for the sake of

something else is improperly said to be dear, but the truly dear is that in which all these

so-called dear friendships terminate.

That, he said, appears to be true.

And the truly dear or ultimate principle of friendship is not for the sake of any other or

further dear.

True.

Then we have done with the notion that friendship has any further object. May we then

infer that the good is the friend?

I think so.

And the good is loved for the sake of the evil? Let me put the case in this way: Suppose

that of the three principles, good, evil, and that which is neither good nor evil, there

remained only the good and the neutral, and that evil went far away, and in no way

affected soul or body, nor ever at all that class of things which, as we say, are neither

good nor evil in themselves;—would the good be of any use, or other than useless to us?

For if there were nothing to hurt us any longer, we should have no need of anything that

would do us good. Then would be clearly seen that we did but love and desire the good

because of the evil, and as the remedy of the evil, which was the disease; but if there had

been no disease, there would have been no need of a remedy. Is not this the nature of

the good—to be loved by us who are placed between the two, because of the evil? but

there is no use in the good for its own sake.

I suppose not.

Then the final principle of friendship, in which all other friendships terminated, those, I

mean, which are relatively dear and for the sake of something else, is of another and a

different nature from them. For they are called dear because of another dear or friend.

But with the true friend or dear, the case is quite the reverse; for that is proved to be

dear because of the hated, and if the hated were away it would be no longer dear.

Very true, he replied: at any rate not if our present view holds good.

But, oh! will you tell me, I said, whether if evil were to perish, we should hunger any

more, or thirst any more, or have any similar desire? Or may we suppose that hunger

will remain while men and animals remain, but not so as to be hurtful? And the same of

thirst and the other desires,— that they will remain, but will not be evil because evil has

perished? Or rather shall I say, that to ask what either will be then or will not be is

ridiculous, for who knows? This we do know, that in our present condition hunger may

injure us, and may also benefit us:—Is not that true?

Yes.

And in like manner thirst or any similar desire may sometimes be a good and sometimes

an evil to us, and sometimes neither one nor the other?

To be sure.

But is there any reason why, because evil perishes, that which is not evil should perish

with it?

None.

Then, even if evil perishes, the desires which are neither good nor evil will remain?

Clearly they will.

And must not a man love that which he desires and affects?

He must.

Then, even if evil perishes, there may still remain some elements of love or friendship?

Yes.

But not if evil is the cause of friendship: for in that case nothing will be the friend of any

other thing after the destruction of evil; for the effect cannot remain when the cause is

destroyed.

True.

And have we not admitted already that the friend loves something for a reason? and at

the time of making the admission we were of opinion that the neither good nor evil loves

the good because of the evil?

Very true.

But now our view is changed, and we conceive that there must be some other cause of

friendship?

I suppose so.

May not the truth be rather, as we were saying just now, that desire is the cause of

friendship; for that which desires is dear to that which is desired at the time of desiring

it? and may not the other theory have been only a long story about nothing?

Likely enough.

But surely, I said, he who desires, desires that of which he is in want?

Yes.

And that of which he is in want is dear to him?

True.

And he is in want of that of which he is deprived?

Certainly.

Then love, and desire, and friendship would appear to be of the natural or congenial.

Such, Lysis and Menexenus, is the inference.

They assented.

Then if you are friends, you must have natures which are congenial to one another?

Certainly, they both said.

And I say, my boys, that no one who loves or desires another would ever have loved or

desired or affected him, if he had not been in some way congenial to him, either in his

soul, or in his character, or in his manners, or in his form.

Yes, yes, said Menexenus. But Lysis was silent.

Then, I said, the conclusion is, that what is of a congenial nature must be loved.

It follows, he said.

Then the lover, who is true and no counterfeit, must of necessity be loved by his love.

Lysis and Menexenus gave a faint assent to this; and Hippothales changed into all

manner of colours with delight.

Here, intending to revise the argument, I said: Can we point out any difference between

the congenial and the like? For if that is possible, then I think, Lysis and Menexenus,

there may be some sense in our argument about friendship. But if the congenial is only

the like, how will you get rid of the other argument, of the uselessness of like to like in as

far as they are like; for to say that what is useless is dear, would be absurd? Suppose,

then, that we agree to distinguish between the congenial and the like—in the

intoxication of argument, that may perhaps be allowed.

Very true.

And shall we further say that the good is congenial, and the evil uncongenial to every

one? Or again that the evil is congenial to the evil, and the good to the good; and that

which is neither good nor evil to that which is neither good nor evil?

They agreed to the latter alternative.

Then, my boys, we have again fallen into the old discarded error; for the unjust will be

the friend of the unjust, and the bad of the bad, as well as the good of the good.

That appears to be the result.

But again, if we say that the congenial is the same as the good, in that case the good and

he only will be the friend of the good.

True.

But that too was a position of ours which, as you will remember, has been already

refuted by ourselves.

We remember.

Then what is to be done? Or rather is there anything to be done? I can only, like the wise

men who argue in courts, sum up the arguments:—If neither the beloved, nor the lover,

nor the like, nor the unlike, nor the good, nor the congenial, nor any other of whom we

spoke—for there were such a number of them that I cannot remember all—if none of

these are friends, I know not what remains to be said.

Here I was going to invite the opinion of some older person, when suddenly we were

interrupted by the tutors of Lysis and Menexenus, who came upon us like an evil

apparition with their brothers, and bade them go home, as it was getting late. At first, we

and the by-standers drove them off; but afterwards, as they would not mind, and only

went on shouting in their barbarous dialect, and got angry, and kept calling the boys—

they appeared to us to have been drinking rather too much at the Hermaea, which made

them difficult to manage—we fairly gave way and broke up the company.

I said, however, a few words to the boys at parting: O Menexenus and Lysis, how

ridiculous that you two boys, and I, an old boy, who would fain be one of you, should

imagine ourselves to be friends—this is what the by- standers will go away and say—and

as yet we have not been able to discover what is a friend!

EUTHYPHRO

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Euthyphro.

SCENE: The Porch of the King Archon.

EUTHYPHRO: Why have you left the Lyceum, Socrates? and what are you doing in the

Porch of the King Archon? Surely you cannot be concerned in a suit before the King, like

myself?

SOCRATES: Not in a suit, Euthyphro; impeachment is the word which the Athenians use.

EUTHYPHRO: What! I suppose that some one has been prosecuting you, for I cannot

believe that you are the prosecutor of another.

SOCRATES: Certainly not.

EUTHYPHRO: Then some one else has been prosecuting you?

SOCRATES: Yes.

EUTHYPHRO: And who is he?

SOCRATES: A young man who is little known, Euthyphro; and I hardly know him: his

name is Meletus, and he is of the deme of Pitthis. Perhaps you may remember his

appearance; he has a beak, and long straight hair, and a beard which is ill grown.

EUTHYPHRO: No, I do not remember him, Socrates. But what is the charge which he

brings against you?

SOCRATES: What is the charge? Well, a very serious charge, which shows a good deal of

character in the young man, and for which he is certainly not to be despised. He says he

knows how the youth are corrupted and who are their corruptors. I fancy that he must

be a wise man, and seeing that I am the reverse of a wise man, he has found me out,

and is going to accuse me of corrupting his young friends. And of this our mother the

state is to be the judge. Of all our political men he is the only one who seems to me to

begin in the right way, with the cultivation of virtue in youth; like a good husbandman,

he makes the young shoots his first care, and clears away us who are the destroyers of

them. This is only the first step; he will afterwards attend to the elder branches; and if he

goes on as he has begun, he will be a very great public benefactor.

EUTHYPHRO: I hope that he may; but I rather fear, Socrates, that the opposite will turn

out to be the truth. My opinion is that in attacking you he is simply aiming a blow at the

foundation of the state. But in what way does he say that you corrupt the young?

SOCRATES: He brings a wonderful accusation against me, which at first hearing excites

surprise: he says that I am a poet or maker of gods, and that I invent new gods and deny

the existence of old ones; this is the ground of his indictment.

EUTHYPHRO: I understand, Socrates; he means to attack you about the familiar sign

which occasionally, as you say, comes to you. He thinks that you are a neologian, and he

is going to have you up before the court for this. He knows that such a charge is readily

received by the world, as I myself know too well; for when I speak in the assembly about

divine things, and foretell the future to them, they laugh at me and think me a madman.

Yet every word that I say is true. But they are jealous of us all; and we must be brave and

go at them.

SOCRATES: Their laughter, friend Euthyphro, is not a matter of much consequence. For a

man may be thought wise; but the Athenians, I suspect, do not much trouble themselves

about him until he begins to impart his wisdom to others, and then for some reason or

other, perhaps, as you say, from jealousy, they are angry.

EUTHYPHRO: I am never likely to try their temper in this way.

SOCRATES: I dare say not, for you are reserved in your behaviour, and seldom impart

your wisdom. But I have a benevolent habit of pouring out myself to everybody, and

would even pay for a listener, and I am afraid that the Athenians may think me too

talkative. Now if, as I was saying, they would only laugh at me, as you say that they

laugh at you, the time might pass gaily enough in the court; but perhaps they may be in

earnest, and then what the end will be you soothsayers only can predict.

EUTHYPHRO: I dare say that the affair will end in nothing, Socrates, and that you will win

your cause; and I think that I shall win my own.

SOCRATES: And what is your suit, Euthyphro? are you the pursuer or the defendant?

EUTHYPHRO: I am the pursuer.

SOCRATES: Of whom?

EUTHYPHRO: You will think me mad when I tell you.

SOCRATES: Why, has the fugitive wings?

EUTHYPHRO: Nay, he is not very volatile at his time of life.

SOCRATES: Who is he?

EUTHYPHRO: My father.

SOCRATES: Your father! my good man?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And of what is he accused?

EUTHYPHRO: Of murder, Socrates.

SOCRATES: By the powers, Euthyphro! how little does the common herd know of the

nature of right and truth. A man must be an extraordinary man, and have made great

strides in wisdom, before he could have seen his way to bring such an action.

EUTHYPHRO: Indeed, Socrates, he must.

SOCRATES: I suppose that the man whom your father murdered was one of your

relatives—clearly he was; for if he had been a stranger you would never have thought of

prosecuting him.

EUTHYPHRO: I am amused, Socrates, at your making a distinction between one who is a

relation and one who is not a relation; for surely the pollution is the same in either case,

if you knowingly associate with the murderer when you ought to clear yourself and him

by proceeding against him. The real question is whether the murdered man has been

justly slain. If justly, then your duty is to let the matter alone; but if unjustly, then even if

the murderer lives under the same roof with you and eats at the same table, proceed

against him. Now the man who is dead was a poor dependant of mine who worked for

us as a field labourer on our farm in Naxos, and one day in a fit of drunken passion he

got into a quarrel with one of our domestic servants and slew him. My father bound him

hand and foot and threw him into a ditch, and then sent to Athens to ask of a diviner

what he should do with him. Meanwhile he never attended to him and took no care

about him, for he regarded him as a murderer; and thought that no great harm would

be done even if he did die. Now this was just what happened. For such was the effect of

cold and hunger and chains upon him, that before the messenger returned from the

diviner, he was dead. And my father and family are angry with me for taking the part of

the murderer and prosecuting my father. They say that he did not kill him, and that if he

did, the dead man was but a murderer, and I ought not to take any notice, for that a son

is impious who prosecutes a father. Which shows, Socrates, how little they know what

the gods think about piety and impiety.

SOCRATES: Good heavens, Euthyphro! and is your knowledge of religion and of things

pious and impious so very exact, that, supposing the circumstances to be as you state

them, you are not afraid lest you too may be doing an impious thing in bringing an

action against your father?

EUTHYPHRO: The best of Euthyphro, and that which distinguishes him, Socrates, from

other men, is his exact knowledge of all such matters. What should I be good for

without it?

SOCRATES: Rare friend! I think that I cannot do better than be your disciple. Then before

the trial with Meletus comes on I shall challenge him, and say that I have always had a

great interest in religious questions, and now, as he charges me with rash imaginations

and innovations in religion, I have become your disciple. You, Meletus, as I shall say to

him, acknowledge Euthyphro to be a great theologian, and sound in his opinions; and if

you approve of him you ought to approve of me, and not have me into court; but if you

disapprove, you should begin by indicting him who is my teacher, and who will be the

ruin, not of the young, but of the old; that is to say, of myself whom he instructs, and of

his old father whom he admonishes and chastises. And if Meletus refuses to listen to

me, but will go on, and will not shift the indictment from me to you, I cannot do better

than repeat this challenge in the court.

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, indeed, Socrates; and if he attempts to indict me I am mistaken if I do

not find a flaw in him; the court shall have a great deal more to say to him than to me.

SOCRATES: And I, my dear friend, knowing this, am desirous of becoming your disciple.

For I observe that no one appears to notice you—not even this Meletus; but his sharp

eyes have found me out at once, and he has indicted me for impiety. And therefore, I

adjure you to tell me the nature of piety and impiety, which you said that you knew so

well, and of murder, and of other offences against the gods. What are they? Is not piety

in every action always the same? and impiety, again—is it not always the opposite of

piety, and also the same with itself, having, as impiety, one notion which includes

whatever is impious?

EUTHYPHRO: To be sure, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And what is piety, and what is impiety?

EUTHYPHRO: Piety is doing as I am doing; that is to say, prosecuting any one who is

guilty of murder, sacrilege, or of any similar crime—whether he be your father or

mother, or whoever he may be—that makes no difference; and not to prosecute them is

impiety. And please to consider, Socrates, what a notable proof I will give you of the

truth of my words, a proof which I have already given to others:—of the principle, I

mean, that the impious, whoever he may be, ought not to go unpunished. For do not

men regard Zeus as the best and most righteous of the gods?—and yet they admit that

he bound his father (Cronos) because he wickedly devoured his sons, and that he too

had punished his own father (Uranus) for a similar reason, in a nameless manner. And

yet when I proceed against my father, they are angry with me. So inconsistent are they

in their way of talking when the gods are concerned, and when I am concerned.

SOCRATES: May not this be the reason, Euthyphro, why I am charged with impiety—that

I cannot away with these stories about the gods? and therefore I suppose that people

think me wrong. But, as you who are well informed about them approve of them, I

cannot do better than assent to your superior wisdom. What else can I say, confessing

as I do, that I know nothing about them? Tell me, for the love of Zeus, whether you

really believe that they are true.

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates; and things more wonderful still, of which the world is in

ignorance.

SOCRATES: And do you really believe that the gods fought with one another, and had

dire quarrels, battles, and the like, as the poets say, and as you may see represented in

the works of great artists? The temples are full of them; and notably the robe of Athene,

which is carried up to the Acropolis at the great Panathenaea, is embroidered with them.

Are all these tales of the gods true, Euthyphro?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates; and, as I was saying, I can tell you, if you would like to hear

them, many other things about the gods which would quite amaze you.

SOCRATES: I dare say; and you shall tell me them at some other time when I have

leisure. But just at present I would rather hear from you a more precise answer, which

you have not as yet given, my friend, to the question, What is 'piety'? When asked, you

only replied, Doing as you do, charging your father with murder.

EUTHYPHRO: And what I said was true, Socrates.

SOCRATES: No doubt, Euthyphro; but you would admit that there are many other pious

acts?

EUTHYPHRO: There are.

SOCRATES: Remember that I did not ask you to give me two or three examples of piety,

but to explain the general idea which makes all pious things to be pious. Do you not

recollect that there was one idea which made the impious impious, and the pious pious?

EUTHYPHRO: I remember.

SOCRATES: Tell me what is the nature of this idea, and then I shall have a standard to

which I may look, and by which I may measure actions, whether yours or those of any

one else, and then I shall be able to say that such and such an action is pious, such

another impious.

EUTHYPHRO: I will tell you, if you like.

SOCRATES: I should very much like.

EUTHYPHRO: Piety, then, is that which is dear to the gods, and impiety is that which is

not dear to them.

SOCRATES: Very good, Euthyphro; you have now given me the sort of answer which I

wanted. But whether what you say is true or not I cannot as yet tell, although I make no

doubt that you will prove the truth of your words.

EUTHYPHRO: Of course.

SOCRATES: Come, then, and let us examine what we are saying. That thing or person

which is dear to the gods is pious, and that thing or person which is hateful to the gods

is impious, these two being the extreme opposites of one another. Was not that said?

EUTHYPHRO: It was.

SOCRATES: And well said?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates, I thought so; it was certainly said.

SOCRATES: And further, Euthyphro, the gods were admitted to have enmities and

hatreds and differences?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, that was also said.

SOCRATES: And what sort of difference creates enmity and anger? Suppose for example

that you and I, my good friend, differ about a number; do differences of this sort make

us enemies and set us at variance with one another? Do we not go at once to arithmetic,

and put an end to them by a sum?

EUTHYPHRO: True.

SOCRATES: Or suppose that we differ about magnitudes, do we not quickly end the

differences by measuring?

EUTHYPHRO: Very true.

SOCRATES: And we end a controversy about heavy and light by resorting to a weighing

machine?

EUTHYPHRO: To be sure.

SOCRATES: But what differences are there which cannot be thus decided, and which

therefore make us angry and set us at enmity with one another? I dare say the answer

does not occur to you at the moment, and therefore I will suggest that these enmities

arise when the matters of difference are the just and unjust, good and evil, honourable

and dishonourable. Are not these the points about which men differ, and about which

when we are unable satisfactorily to decide our differences, you and I and all of us

quarrel, when we do quarrel? (Compare Alcib.)

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates, the nature of the differences about which we quarrel is such

as you describe.

SOCRATES: And the quarrels of the gods, noble Euthyphro, when they occur, are of a

like nature?

EUTHYPHRO: Certainly they are.

SOCRATES: They have differences of opinion, as you say, about good and evil, just and

unjust, honourable and dishonourable: there would have been no quarrels among them,

if there had been no such differences—would there now?

EUTHYPHRO: You are quite right.

SOCRATES: Does not every man love that which he deems noble and just and good, and

hate the opposite of them?

EUTHYPHRO: Very true.

SOCRATES: But, as you say, people regard the same things, some as just and others as

unjust,—about these they dispute; and so there arise wars and fightings among them.

EUTHYPHRO: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then the same things are hated by the gods and loved by the gods, and are

both hateful and dear to them?

EUTHYPHRO: True.

SOCRATES: And upon this view the same things, Euthyphro, will be pious and also

impious?

EUTHYPHRO: So I should suppose.

SOCRATES: Then, my friend, I remark with surprise that you have not answered the

question which I asked. For I certainly did not ask you to tell me what action is both

pious and impious: but now it would seem that what is loved by the gods is also hated

by them. And therefore, Euthyphro, in thus chastising your father you may very likely be

doing what is agreeable to Zeus but disagreeable to Cronos or Uranus, and what is

acceptable to Hephaestus but unacceptable to Here, and there may be other gods who

have similar differences of opinion.

EUTHYPHRO: But I believe, Socrates, that all the gods would be agreed as to the

propriety of punishing a murderer: there would be no difference of opinion about that.

SOCRATES: Well, but speaking of men, Euthyphro, did you ever hear any one arguing

that a murderer or any sort of evil-doer ought to be let off?

EUTHYPHRO: I should rather say that these are the questions which they are always

arguing, especially in courts of law: they commit all sorts of crimes, and there is nothing

which they will not do or say in their own defence.

SOCRATES: But do they admit their guilt, Euthyphro, and yet say that they ought not to

be punished?

EUTHYPHRO: No; they do not.

SOCRATES: Then there are some things which they do not venture to say and do: for

they do not venture to argue that the guilty are to be unpunished, but they deny their

guilt, do they not?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then they do not argue that the evil-doer should not be punished, but they

argue about the fact of who the evil-doer is, and what he did and when?

EUTHYPHRO: True.

SOCRATES: And the gods are in the same case, if as you assert they quarrel about just

and unjust, and some of them say while others deny that injustice is done among them.

For surely neither God nor man will ever venture to say that the doer of injustice is not

to be punished?

EUTHYPHRO: That is true, Socrates, in the main.

SOCRATES: But they join issue about the particulars—gods and men alike; and, if they

dispute at all, they dispute about some act which is called in question, and which by

some is affirmed to be just, by others to be unjust. Is not that true?

EUTHYPHRO: Quite true.

SOCRATES: Well then, my dear friend Euthyphro, do tell me, for my better instruction

and information, what proof have you that in the opinion of all the gods a servant who

is guilty of murder, and is put in chains by the master of the dead man, and dies

because he is put in chains before he who bound him can learn from the interpreters of

the gods what he ought to do with him, dies unjustly; and that on behalf of such an one

a son ought to proceed against his father and accuse him of murder. How would you

show that all the gods absolutely agree in approving of his act? Prove to me that they

do, and I will applaud your wisdom as long as I live.

EUTHYPHRO: It will be a difficult task; but I could make the matter very clear indeed to

you.

SOCRATES: I understand; you mean to say that I am not so quick of apprehension as the

judges: for to them you will be sure to prove that the act is unjust, and hateful to the

gods.

EUTHYPHRO: Yes indeed, Socrates; at least if they will listen to me.

SOCRATES: But they will be sure to listen if they find that you are a good speaker. There

was a notion that came into my mind while you were speaking; I said to myself: 'Well,

and what if Euthyphro does prove to me that all the gods regarded the death of the serf

as unjust, how do I know anything more of the nature of piety and impiety? for granting

that this action may be hateful to the gods, still piety and impiety are not adequately

defined by these distinctions, for that which is hateful to the gods has been shown to be

also pleasing and dear to them.' And therefore, Euthyphro, I do not ask you to prove

this; I will suppose, if you like, that all the gods condemn and abominate such an action.

But I will amend the definition so far as to say that what all the gods hate is impious,

and what they love pious or holy; and what some of them love and others hate is both

or neither. Shall this be our definition of piety and impiety?

EUTHYPHRO: Why not, Socrates?

SOCRATES: Why not! certainly, as far as I am concerned, Euthyphro, there is no reason

why not. But whether this admission will greatly assist you in the task of instructing me

as you promised, is a matter for you to consider.

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, I should say that what all the gods love is pious and holy, and the

opposite which they all hate, impious.

SOCRATES: Ought we to enquire into the truth of this, Euthyphro, or simply to accept

the mere statement on our own authority and that of others? What do you say?

EUTHYPHRO: We should enquire; and I believe that the statement will stand the test of

enquiry.

SOCRATES: We shall know better, my good friend, in a little while. The point which I

should first wish to understand is whether the pious or holy is beloved by the gods

because it is holy, or holy because it is beloved of the gods.

EUTHYPHRO: I do not understand your meaning, Socrates.

SOCRATES: I will endeavour to explain: we, speak of carrying and we speak of being

carried, of leading and being led, seeing and being seen. You know that in all such cases

there is a difference, and you know also in what the difference lies?

EUTHYPHRO: I think that I understand.

SOCRATES: And is not that which is beloved distinct from that which loves?

EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Well; and now tell me, is that which is carried in this state of carrying

because it is carried, or for some other reason?

EUTHYPHRO: No; that is the reason.

SOCRATES: And the same is true of what is led and of what is seen?

EUTHYPHRO: True.

SOCRATES: And a thing is not seen because it is visible, but conversely, visible because it

is seen; nor is a thing led because it is in the state of being led, or carried because it is in

the state of being carried, but the converse of this. And now I think, Euthyphro, that my

meaning will be intelligible; and my meaning is, that any state of action or passion

implies previous action or passion. It does not become because it is becoming, but it is

in a state of becoming because it becomes; neither does it suffer because it is in a state

of suffering, but it is in a state of suffering because it suffers. Do you not agree?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Is not that which is loved in some state either of becoming or suffering?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the same holds as in the previous instances; the state of being loved

follows the act of being loved, and not the act the state.

EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And what do you say of piety, Euthyphro: is not piety, according to your

definition, loved by all the gods?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Because it is pious or holy, or for some other reason?

EUTHYPHRO: No, that is the reason.

SOCRATES: It is loved because it is holy, not holy because it is loved?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And that which is dear to the gods is loved by them, and is in a state to be

loved of them because it is loved of them?

EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then that which is dear to the gods, Euthyphro, is not holy, nor is that which

is holy loved of God, as you affirm; but they are two different things.

EUTHYPHRO: How do you mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I mean to say that the holy has been acknowledged by us to be loved of

God because it is holy, not to be holy because it is loved.

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: But that which is dear to the gods is dear to them because it is loved by

them, not loved by them because it is dear to them.

EUTHYPHRO: True.

SOCRATES: But, friend Euthyphro, if that which is holy is the same with that which is dear

to God, and is loved because it is holy, then that which is dear to God would have been

loved as being dear to God; but if that which is dear to God is dear to him because

loved by him, then that which is holy would have been holy because loved by him. But

now you see that the reverse is the case, and that they are quite different from one

another. For one (theophiles) is of a kind to be loved cause it is loved, and the other

(osion) is loved because it is of a kind to be loved. Thus you appear to me, Euthyphro,

when I ask you what is the essence of holiness, to offer an attribute only, and not the

essence—the attribute of being loved by all the gods. But you still refuse to explain to

me the nature of holiness. And therefore, if you please, I will ask you not to hide your

treasure, but to tell me once more what holiness or piety really is, whether dear to the

gods or not (for that is a matter about which we will not quarrel); and what is impiety?

EUTHYPHRO: I really do not know, Socrates, how to express what I mean. For somehow

or other our arguments, on whatever ground we rest them, seem to turn round and walk

away from us.

SOCRATES: Your words, Euthyphro, are like the handiwork of my ancestor Daedalus; and

if I were the sayer or propounder of them, you might say that my arguments walk away

and will not remain fixed where they are placed because I am a descendant of his. But

now, since these notions are your own, you must find some other gibe, for they

certainly, as you yourself allow, show an inclination to be on the move.

EUTHYPHRO: Nay, Socrates, I shall still say that you are the Daedalus who sets

arguments in motion; not I, certainly, but you make them move or go round, for they

would never have stirred, as far as I am concerned.

SOCRATES: Then I must be a greater than Daedalus: for whereas he only made his own

inventions to move, I move those of other people as well. And the beauty of it is, that I

would rather not. For I would give the wisdom of Daedalus, and the wealth of Tantalus,

to be able to detain them and keep them fixed. But enough of this. As I perceive that

you are lazy, I will myself endeavour to show you how you might instruct me in the

nature of piety; and I hope that you will not grudge your labour. Tell me, then—Is not

that which is pious necessarily just?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And is, then, all which is just pious? or, is that which is pious all just, but that

which is just, only in part and not all, pious?

EUTHYPHRO: I do not understand you, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And yet I know that you are as much wiser than I am, as you are younger.

But, as I was saying, revered friend, the abundance of your wisdom makes you lazy.

Please to exert yourself, for there is no real difficulty in understanding me. What I mean I

may explain by an illustration of what I do not mean. The poet (Stasinus) sings—

'Of Zeus, the author and creator of all these things, You will not tell: for where there is

fear there is also reverence.'

Now I disagree with this poet. Shall I tell you in what respect?

EUTHYPHRO: By all means.

SOCRATES: I should not say that where there is fear there is also reverence; for I am sure

that many persons fear poverty and disease, and the like evils, but I do not perceive that

they reverence the objects of their fear.

EUTHYPHRO: Very true.

SOCRATES: But where reverence is, there is fear; for he who has a feeling of reverence

and shame about the commission of any action, fears and is afraid of an ill reputation.

EUTHYPHRO: No doubt.

SOCRATES: Then we are wrong in saying that where there is fear there is also reverence;

and we should say, where there is reverence there is also fear. But there is not always

reverence where there is fear; for fear is a more extended notion, and reverence is a part

of fear, just as the odd is a part of number, and number is a more extended notion than

the odd. I suppose that you follow me now?

EUTHYPHRO: Quite well.

SOCRATES: That was the sort of question which I meant to raise when I asked whether

the just is always the pious, or the pious always the just; and whether there may not be

justice where there is not piety; for justice is the more extended notion of which piety is

only a part. Do you dissent?

EUTHYPHRO: No, I think that you are quite right.

SOCRATES: Then, if piety is a part of justice, I suppose that we should enquire what part?

If you had pursued the enquiry in the previous cases; for instance, if you had asked me

what is an even number, and what part of number the even is, I should have had no

difficulty in replying, a number which represents a figure having two equal sides. Do you

not agree?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, I quite agree.

SOCRATES: In like manner, I want you to tell me what part of justice is piety or holiness,

that I may be able to tell Meletus not to do me injustice, or indict me for impiety, as I am

now adequately instructed by you in the nature of piety or holiness, and their opposites.

EUTHYPHRO: Piety or holiness, Socrates, appears to me to be that part of justice which

attends to the gods, as there is the other part of justice which attends to men.

SOCRATES: That is good, Euthyphro; yet still there is a little point about which I should

like to have further information, What is the meaning of 'attention'? For attention can

hardly be used in the same sense when applied to the gods as when applied to other

things. For instance, horses are said to require attention, and not every person is able to

attend to them, but only a person skilled in horsemanship. Is it not so?

EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: I should suppose that the art of horsemanship is the art of attending to

horses?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Nor is every one qualified to attend to dogs, but only the huntsman?

EUTHYPHRO: True.

SOCRATES: And I should also conceive that the art of the huntsman is the art of

attending to dogs?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: As the art of the oxherd is the art of attending to oxen?

EUTHYPHRO: Very true.

SOCRATES: In like manner holiness or piety is the art of attending to the gods?—that

would be your meaning, Euthyphro?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And is not attention always designed for the good or benefit of that to

which the attention is given? As in the case of horses, you may observe that when

attended to by the horseman's art they are benefited and improved, are they not?

EUTHYPHRO: True.

SOCRATES: As the dogs are benefited by the huntsman's art, and the oxen by the art of

the oxherd, and all other things are tended or attended for their good and not for their

hurt?

EUTHYPHRO: Certainly, not for their hurt.

SOCRATES: But for their good?

EUTHYPHRO: Of course.

SOCRATES: And does piety or holiness, which has been defined to be the art of

attending to the gods, benefit or improve them? Would you say that when you do a

holy act you make any of the gods better?

EUTHYPHRO: No, no; that was certainly not what I meant.

SOCRATES: And I, Euthyphro, never supposed that you did. I asked you the question

about the nature of the attention, because I thought that you did not.

EUTHYPHRO: You do me justice, Socrates; that is not the sort of attention which I mean.

SOCRATES: Good: but I must still ask what is this attention to the gods which is called

piety?

EUTHYPHRO: It is such, Socrates, as servants show to their masters.

SOCRATES: I understand—a sort of ministration to the gods.

EUTHYPHRO: Exactly.

SOCRATES: Medicine is also a sort of ministration or service, having in view the

attainment of some object—would you not say of health?

EUTHYPHRO: I should.

SOCRATES: Again, there is an art which ministers to the ship-builder with a view to the

attainment of some result?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates, with a view to the building of a ship.

SOCRATES: As there is an art which ministers to the house-builder with a view to the

building of a house?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And now tell me, my good friend, about the art which ministers to the gods:

what work does that help to accomplish? For you must surely know if, as you say, you

are of all men living the one who is best instructed in religion.

EUTHYPHRO: And I speak the truth, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Tell me then, oh tell me—what is that fair work which the gods do by the

help of our ministrations?

EUTHYPHRO: Many and fair, Socrates, are the works which they do.

SOCRATES: Why, my friend, and so are those of a general. But the chief of them is easily

told. Would you not say that victory in war is the chief of them?

EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Many and fair, too, are the works of the husbandman, if I am not mistaken;

but his chief work is the production of food from the earth?

EUTHYPHRO: Exactly.

SOCRATES: And of the many and fair things done by the gods, which is the chief or

principal one?

EUTHYPHRO: I have told you already, Socrates, that to learn all these things accurately

will be very tiresome. Let me simply say that piety or holiness is learning how to please

the gods in word and deed, by prayers and sacrifices. Such piety is the salvation of

families and states, just as the impious, which is unpleasing to the gods, is their ruin and

destruction.

SOCRATES: I think that you could have answered in much fewer words the chief

question which I asked, Euthyphro, if you had chosen. But I see plainly that you are not

disposed to instruct me—clearly not: else why, when we reached the point, did you turn

aside? Had you only answered me I should have truly learned of you by this time the

nature of piety. Now, as the asker of a question is necessarily dependent on the

answerer, whither he leads I must follow; and can only ask again, what is the pious, and

what is piety? Do you mean that they are a sort of science of praying and sacrificing?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, I do.

SOCRATES: And sacrificing is giving to the gods, and prayer is asking of the gods?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Upon this view, then, piety is a science of asking and giving?

EUTHYPHRO: You understand me capitally, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Yes, my friend; the reason is that I am a votary of your science, and give my

mind to it, and therefore nothing which you say will be thrown away upon me. Please

then to tell me, what is the nature of this service to the gods? Do you mean that we

prefer requests and give gifts to them?

EUTHYPHRO: Yes, I do.

SOCRATES: Is not the right way of asking to ask of them what we want?

EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And the right way of giving is to give to them in return what they want of us.

There would be no meaning in an art which gives to any one that which he does not

want.

EUTHYPHRO: Very true, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then piety, Euthyphro, is an art which gods and men have of doing business

with one another?

EUTHYPHRO: That is an expression which you may use, if you like.

SOCRATES: But I have no particular liking for anything but the truth. I wish, however,

that you would tell me what benefit accrues to the gods from our gifts. There is no

doubt about what they give to us; for there is no good thing which they do not give; but

how we can give any good thing to them in return is far from being equally clear. If they

give everything and we give nothing, that must be an affair of business in which we have

very greatly the advantage of them.

EUTHYPHRO: And do you imagine, Socrates, that any benefit accrues to the gods from

our gifts?

SOCRATES: But if not, Euthyphro, what is the meaning of gifts which are conferred by us

upon the gods?

EUTHYPHRO: What else, but tributes of honour; and, as I was just now saying, what

pleases them?

SOCRATES: Piety, then, is pleasing to the gods, but not beneficial or dear to them?

EUTHYPHRO: I should say that nothing could be dearer.

SOCRATES: Then once more the assertion is repeated that piety is dear to the gods?

EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And when you say this, can you wonder at your words not standing firm, but

walking away? Will you accuse me of being the Daedalus who makes them walk away,

not perceiving that there is another and far greater artist than Daedalus who makes

them go round in a circle, and he is yourself; for the argument, as you will perceive,

comes round to the same point. Were we not saying that the holy or pious was not the

same with that which is loved of the gods? Have you forgotten?

EUTHYPHRO: I quite remember.

SOCRATES: And are you not saying that what is loved of the gods is holy; and is not this

the same as what is dear to them—do you see?

EUTHYPHRO: True.

SOCRATES: Then either we were wrong in our former assertion; or, if we were right then,

we are wrong now.

EUTHYPHRO: One of the two must be true.

SOCRATES: Then we must begin again and ask, What is piety? That is an enquiry which I

shall never be weary of pursuing as far as in me lies; and I entreat you not to scorn me,

but to apply your mind to the utmost, and tell me the truth. For, if any man knows, you

are he; and therefore I must detain you, like Proteus, until you tell. If you had not

certainly known the nature of piety and impiety, I am confident that you would never, on

behalf of a serf, have charged your aged father with murder. You would not have run

such a risk of doing wrong in the sight of the gods, and you would have had too much

respect for the opinions of men. I am sure, therefore, that you know the nature of piety

and impiety. Speak out then, my dear Euthyphro, and do not hide your knowledge.

EUTHYPHRO: Another time, Socrates; for I am in a hurry, and must go now.

SOCRATES: Alas! my companion, and will you leave me in despair? I was hoping that

you would instruct me in the nature of piety and impiety; and then I might have cleared

myself of Meletus and his indictment. I would have told him that I had been enlightened

by Euthyphro, and had given up rash innovations and speculations, in which I indulged

only through ignorance, and that now I am about to lead a better life.

THE END

MENEXENUS

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates and Menexenus.

SOCRATES: Whence come you, Menexenus? Are you from the Agora?

MENEXENUS: Yes, Socrates; I have been at the Council.

SOCRATES: And what might you be doing at the Council? And yet I need hardly ask, for I

see that you, believing yourself to have arrived at the end of education and of

philosophy, and to have had enough of them, are mounting upwards to things higher

still, and, though rather young for the post, are intending to govern us elder men, like

the rest of your family, which has always provided some one who kindly took care of us.

MENEXENUS: Yes, Socrates, I shall be ready to hold office, if you allow and advise that I

should, but not if you think otherwise. I went to the council chamber because I heard

that the Council was about to choose some one who was to speak over the dead. For

you know that there is to be a public funeral?

SOCRATES: Yes, I know. And whom did they choose?

MENEXENUS: No one; they delayed the election until tomorrow, but I believe that either

Archinus or Dion will be chosen.

SOCRATES: O Menexenus! Death in battle is certainly in many respects a noble thing.

The dead man gets a fine and costly funeral, although he may have been poor, and an

elaborate speech is made over him by a wise man who has long ago prepared what he

has to say, although he who is praised may not have been good for much. The speakers

praise him for what he has done and for what he has not done—that is the beauty of

them—and they steal away our souls with their embellished words; in every conceivable

form they praise the city; and they praise those who died in war, and all our ancestors

who went before us; and they praise ourselves also who are still alive, until I feel quite

elevated by their laudations, and I stand listening to their words, Menexenus, and

become enchanted by them, and all in a moment I imagine myself to have become a

greater and nobler and finer man than I was before. And if, as often happens, there are

any foreigners who accompany me to the speech, I become suddenly conscious of

having a sort of triumph over them, and they seem to experience a corresponding

feeling of admiration at me, and at the greatness of the city, which appears to them,

when they are under the influence of the speaker, more wonderful than ever. This

consciousness of dignity lasts me more than three days, and not until the fourth or fifth

day do I come to my senses and know where I am; in the meantime I have been living in

the Islands of the Blest. Such is the art of our rhetoricians, and in such manner does the

sound of their words keep ringing in my ears.

MENEXENUS: You are always making fun of the rhetoricians, Socrates; this time,

however, I am inclined to think that the speaker who is chosen will not have much to

say, for he has been called upon to speak at a moment's notice, and he will be

compelled almost to improvise.

SOCRATES: But why, my friend, should he not have plenty to say? Every rhetorician has

speeches ready made; nor is there any difficulty in improvising that sort of stuff. Had the

orator to praise Athenians among Peloponnesians, or Peloponnesians among Athenians,

he must be a good rhetorician who could succeed and gain credit. But there is no

difficulty in a man's winning applause when he is contending for fame among the

persons whom he is praising.

MENEXENUS: Do you think not, Socrates?

SOCRATES: Certainly 'not.'

MENEXENUS: Do you think that you could speak yourself if there should be a necessity,

and if the Council were to choose you?

SOCRATES: That I should be able to speak is no great wonder, Menexenus, considering

that I have an excellent mistress in the art of rhetoric,—she who has made so many

good speakers, and one who was the best among all the Hellenes—Pericles, the son of

Xanthippus.

MENEXENUS: And who is she? I suppose that you mean Aspasia.

SOCRATES: Yes, I do; and besides her I had Connus, the son of Metrobius, as a master,

and he was my master in music, as she was in rhetoric. No wonder that a man who has

received such an education should be a finished speaker; even the pupil of very inferior

masters, say, for example, one who had learned music of Lamprus, and rhetoric of

Antiphon the Rhamnusian, might make a figure if he were to praise the Athenians

among the Athenians.

MENEXENUS: And what would you be able to say if you had to speak?

SOCRATES: Of my own wit, most likely nothing; but yesterday I heard Aspasia

composing a funeral oration about these very dead. For she had been told, as you were

saying, that the Athenians were going to choose a speaker, and she repeated to me the

sort of speech which he should deliver, partly improvising and partly from previous

thought, putting together fragments of the funeral oration which Pericles spoke, but

which, as I believe, she composed.

MENEXENUS: And can you remember what Aspasia said?

SOCRATES: I ought to be able, for she taught me, and she was ready to strike me

because I was always forgetting.

MENEXENUS: Then why will you not rehearse what she said?

SOCRATES: Because I am afraid that my mistress may be angry with me if I publish her

speech.

MENEXENUS: Nay, Socrates, let us have the speech, whether Aspasia's or any one else's,

no matter. I hope that you will oblige me.

SOCRATES: But I am afraid that you will laugh at me if I continue the games of youth in

old age.

MENEXENUS: Far otherwise, Socrates; let us by all means have the speech.

SOCRATES: Truly I have such a disposition to oblige you, that if you bid me dance naked

I should not like to refuse, since we are alone. Listen then: If I remember rightly, she

began as follows, with the mention of the dead:— (Thucyd.)

There is a tribute of deeds and of words. The departed have already had the first, when

going forth on their destined journey they were attended on their way by the state and

by their friends; the tribute of words remains to be given to them, as is meet and by law

ordained. For noble words are a memorial and a crown of noble actions, which are given

to the doers of them by the hearers. A word is needed which will duly praise the dead

and gently admonish the living, exhorting the brethren and descendants of the departed

to imitate their virtue, and consoling their fathers and mothers and the survivors, if any,

who may chance to be alive of the previous generation. What sort of a word will this be,

and how shall we rightly begin the praises of these brave men? In their life they rejoiced

their own friends with their valour, and their death they gave in exchange for the

salvation of the living. And I think that we should praise them in the order in which

nature made them good, for they were good because they were sprung from good

fathers. Wherefore let us first of all praise the goodness of their birth; secondly, their

nurture and education; and then let us set forth how noble their actions were, and how

worthy of the education which they had received.

And first as to their birth. Their ancestors were not strangers, nor are these their

descendants sojourners only, whose fathers have come from another country; but they

are the children of the soil, dwelling and living in their own land. And the country which

brought them up is not like other countries, a stepmother to her children, but their own

true mother; she bore them and nourished them and received them, and in her bosom

they now repose. It is meet and right, therefore, that we should begin by praising the

land which is their mother, and that will be a way of praising their noble birth.

The country is worthy to be praised, not only by us, but by all mankind; first, and above

all, as being dear to the Gods. This is proved by the strife and contention of the Gods

respecting her. And ought not the country which the Gods praise to be praised by all

mankind? The second praise which may be fairly claimed by her, is that at the time when

the whole earth was sending forth and creating diverse animals, tame and wild, she our

mother was free and pure from savage monsters, and out of all animals selected and

brought forth man, who is superior to the rest in understanding, and alone has justice

and religion. And a great proof that she brought forth the common ancestors of us and

of the departed, is that she provided the means of support for her offspring. For as a

woman proves her motherhood by giving milk to her young ones (and she who has no

fountain of milk is not a mother), so did this our land prove that she was the mother of

men, for in those days she alone and first of all brought forth wheat and barley for

human food, which is the best and noblest sustenance for man, whom she regarded as

her true offspring. And these are truer proofs of motherhood in a country than in a

woman, for the woman in her conception and generation is but the imitation of the

earth, and not the earth of the woman. And of the fruit of the earth she gave a

plenteous supply, not only to her own, but to others also; and afterwards she made the

olive to spring up to be a boon to her children, and to help them in their toils. And when

she had herself nursed them and brought them up to manhood, she gave them Gods to

be their rulers and teachers, whose names are well known, and need not now be

repeated. They are the Gods who first ordered our lives, and instructed us in the arts for

the supply of our daily needs, and taught us the acquisition and use of arms for the

defence of the country.

Thus born into the world and thus educated, the ancestors of the departed lived and

made themselves a government, which I ought briefly to commemorate. For

government is the nurture of man, and the government of good men is good, and of

bad men bad. And I must show that our ancestors were trained under a good

government, and for this reason they were good, and our contemporaries are also good,

among whom our departed friends are to be reckoned. Then as now, and indeed always,

from that time to this, speaking generally, our government was an aristocracy—a form

of government which receives various names, according to the fancies of men, and is

sometimes called democracy, but is really an aristocracy or government of the best

which has the approval of the many. For kings we have always had, first hereditary and

then elected, and authority is mostly in the hands of the people, who dispense offices

and power to those who appear to be most deserving of them. Neither is a man rejected

from weakness or poverty or obscurity of origin, nor honoured by reason of the

opposite, as in other states, but there is one principle—he who appears to be wise and

good is a governor and ruler. The basis of this our government is equality of birth; for

other states are made up of all sorts and unequal conditions of men, and therefore their

governments are unequal; there are tyrannies and there are oligarchies, in which the one

party are slaves and the others masters. But we and our citizens are brethren, the

children all of one mother, and we do not think it right to be one another's masters or

servants; but the natural equality of birth compels us to seek for legal equality, and to

recognize no superiority except in the reputation of virtue and wisdom.

And so their and our fathers, and these, too, our brethren, being nobly born and having

been brought up in all freedom, did both in their public and private capacity many

noble deeds famous over the whole world. They were the deeds of men who thought

that they ought to fight both against Hellenes for the sake of Hellenes on behalf of

freedom, and against barbarians in the common interest of Hellas. Time would fail me to

tell of their defence of their country against the invasion of Eumolpus and the Amazons,

or of their defence of the Argives against the Cadmeians, or of the Heracleids against

the Argives; besides, the poets have already declared in song to all mankind their glory,

and therefore any commemoration of their deeds in prose which we might attempt

would hold a second place. They already have their reward, and I say no more of them;

but there are other worthy deeds of which no poet has worthily sung, and which are still

wooing the poet's muse. Of these I am bound to make honourable mention, and shall

invoke others to sing of them also in lyric and other strains, in a manner becoming the

actors. And first I will tell how the Persians, lords of Asia, were enslaving Europe, and

how the children of this land, who were our fathers, held them back. Of these I will speak

first, and praise their valour, as is meet and fitting. He who would rightly estimate them

should place himself in thought at that time, when the whole of Asia was subject to the

third king of Persia. The first king, Cyrus, by his valour freed the Persians, who were his

countrymen, and subjected the Medes, who were their lords, and he ruled over the rest

of Asia, as far as Egypt; and after him came his son, who ruled all the accessible part of

Egypt and Libya; the third king was Darius, who extended the land boundaries of the

empire to Scythia, and with his fleet held the sea and the islands. None presumed to be

his equal; the minds of all men were enthralled by him—so many and mighty and

warlike nations had the power of Persia subdued. Now Darius had a quarrel against us

and the Eretrians, because, as he said, we had conspired against Sardis, and he sent

500,000 men in transports and vessels of war, and 300 ships, and Datis as commander,

telling him to bring the Eretrians and Athenians to the king, if he wished to keep his

head on his shoulders. He sailed against the Eretrians, who were reputed to be amongst

the noblest and most warlike of the Hellenes of that day, and they were numerous, but

he conquered them all in three days; and when he had conquered them, in order that no

one might escape, he searched the whole country after this manner: his soldiers, coming

to the borders of Eretria and spreading from sea to sea, joined hands and passed

through the whole country, in order that they might be able to tell the king that no one

had escaped them. And from Eretria they went to Marathon with a like intention,

expecting to bind the Athenians in the same yoke of necessity in which they had bound

the Eretrians. Having effected one-half of their purpose, they were in the act of

attempting the other, and none of the Hellenes dared to assist either the Eretrians or the

Athenians, except the Lacedaemonians, and they arrived a day too late for the battle;

but the rest were panic-stricken and kept quiet, too happy in having escaped for a time.

He who has present to his mind that conflict will know what manner of men they were

who received the onset of the barbarians at Marathon, and chastened the pride of the

whole of Asia, and by the victory which they gained over the barbarians first taught

other men that the power of the Persians was not invincible, but that hosts of men and

the multitude of riches alike yield to valour. And I assert that those men are the fathers

not only of ourselves, but of our liberties and of the liberties of all who are on the

continent, for that was the action to which the Hellenes looked back when they ventured

to fight for their own safety in the battles which ensued: they became disciples of the

men of Marathon. To them, therefore, I assign in my speech the first place, and the

second to those who fought and conquered in the sea fights at Salamis and Artemisium;

for of them, too, one might have many things to say—of the assaults which they

endured by sea and land, and how they repelled them. I will mention only that act of

theirs which appears to me to be the noblest, and which followed that of Marathon and

came nearest to it; for the men of Marathon only showed the Hellenes that it was

possible to ward off the barbarians by land, the many by the few; but there was no proof

that they could be defeated by ships, and at sea the Persians retained the reputation of

being invincible in numbers and wealth and skill and strength. This is the glory of the

men who fought at sea, that they dispelled the second terror which had hitherto

possessed the Hellenes, and so made the fear of numbers, whether of ships or men, to

cease among them. And so the soldiers of Marathon and the sailors of Salamis became

the schoolmasters of Hellas; the one teaching and habituating the Hellenes not to fear

the barbarians at sea, and the others not to fear them by land. Third in order, for the

number and valour of the combatants, and third in the salvation of Hellas, I place the

battle of Plataea. And now the Lacedaemonians as well as the Athenians took part in the

struggle; they were all united in this greatest and most terrible conflict of all; wherefore

their virtues will be celebrated in times to come, as they are now celebrated by us. But at

a later period many Hellenic tribes were still on the side of the barbarians, and there was

a report that the great king was going to make a new attempt upon the Hellenes, and

therefore justice requires that we should also make mention of those who crowned the

previous work of our salvation, and drove and purged away all barbarians from the sea.

These were the men who fought by sea at the river Eurymedon, and who went on the

expedition to Cyprus, and who sailed to Egypt and divers other places; and they should

be gratefully remembered by us, because they compelled the king in fear for himself to

look to his own safety instead of plotting the destruction of Hellas.

And so the war against the barbarians was fought out to the end by the whole city on

their own behalf, and on behalf of their countrymen. There was peace, and our city was

held in honour; and then, as prosperity makes men jealous, there succeeded a jealousy

of her, and jealousy begat envy, and so she became engaged against her will in a war

with the Hellenes. On the breaking out of war, our citizens met the Lacedaemonians at

Tanagra, and fought for the freedom of the Boeotians; the issue was doubtful, and was

decided by the engagement which followed. For when the Lacedaemonians had gone

on their way, leaving the Boeotians, whom they were aiding, on the third day after the

battle of Tanagra, our countrymen conquered at Oenophyta, and righteously restored

those who had been unrighteously exiled. And they were the first after the Persian war

who fought on behalf of liberty in aid of Hellenes against Hellenes; they were brave

men, and freed those whom they aided, and were the first too who were honourably

interred in this sepulchre by the state. Afterwards there was a mighty war, in which all

the Hellenes joined, and devastated our country, which was very ungrateful of them; and

our countrymen, after defeating them in a naval engagement and taking their leaders,

the Spartans, at Sphagia, when they might have destroyed them, spared their lives, and

gave them back, and made peace, considering that they should war with the fellowcountrymen

only until they gained a victory over them, and not because of the private

anger of the state destroy the common interest of Hellas; but that with barbarians they

should war to the death. Worthy of praise are they also who waged this war, and are

here interred; for they proved, if any one doubted the superior prowess of the Athenians

in the former war with the barbarians, that their doubts had no foundation—showing by

their victory in the civil war with Hellas, in which they subdued the other chief state of

the Hellenes, that they could conquer single-handed those with whom they had been

allied in the war against the barbarians. After the peace there followed a third war, which

was of a terrible and desperate nature, and in this many brave men who are here

interred lost their lives—many of them had won victories in Sicily, whither they had gone

over the seas to fight for the liberties of the Leontines, to whom they were bound by

oaths; but, owing to the distance, the city was unable to help them, and they lost heart

and came to misfortune, their very enemies and opponents winning more renown for

valour and temperance than the friends of others. Many also fell in naval engagements

at the Hellespont, after having in one day taken all the ships of the enemy, and defeated

them in other naval engagements. And what I call the terrible and desperate nature of

the war, is that the other Hellenes, in their extreme animosity towards the city, should

have entered into negotiations with their bitterest enemy, the king of Persia, whom they,

together with us, had expelled;—him, without us, they again brought back, barbarian

against Hellenes, and all the hosts, both of Hellenes and barbarians, were united against

Athens. And then shone forth the power and valour of our city. Her enemies had

supposed that she was exhausted by the war, and our ships were blockaded at Mitylene.

But the citizens themselves embarked, and came to the rescue with sixty other ships,

and their valour was confessed of all men, for they conquered their enemies and

delivered their friends. And yet by some evil fortune they were left to perish at sea, and

therefore are not interred here. Ever to be remembered and honoured are they, for by

their valour not only that sea- fight was won for us, but the entire war was decided by

them, and through them the city gained the reputation of being invincible, even though

attacked by all mankind. And that reputation was a true one, for the defeat which came

upon us was our own doing. We were never conquered by others, and to this day we are

still unconquered by them; but we were our own conquerors, and received defeat at our

own hands. Afterwards there was quiet and peace abroad, but there sprang up war at

home; and, if men are destined to have civil war, no one could have desired that his city

should take the disorder in a milder form. How joyful and natural was the reconciliation

of those who came from the Piraeus and those who came from the city; with what

moderation did they order the war against the tyrants in Eleusis, and in a manner how

unlike what the other Hellenes expected! And the reason of this gentleness was the

veritable tie of blood, which created among them a friendship as of kinsmen, faithful not

in word only, but in deed. And we ought also to remember those who then fell by one

another's hands, and on such occasions as these to reconcile them with sacrifices and

prayers, praying to those who have power over them, that they may be reconciled even

as we are reconciled. For they did not attack one another out of malice or enmity, but

they were unfortunate. And that such was the fact we ourselves are witnesses, who are

of the same race with them, and have mutually received and granted forgiveness of

what we have done and suffered. After this there was perfect peace, and the city had

rest; and her feeling was that she forgave the barbarians, who had severely suffered at

her hands and severely retaliated, but that she was indignant at the ingratitude of the

Hellenes, when she remembered how they had received good from her and returned

evil, having made common cause with the barbarians, depriving her of the ships which

had once been their salvation, and dismantling our walls, which had preserved their own

from falling. She thought that she would no longer defend the Hellenes, when enslaved

either by one another or by the barbarians, and did accordingly. This was our feeling,

while the Lacedaemonians were thinking that we who were the champions of liberty had

fallen, and that their business was to subject the remaining Hellenes. And why should I

say more? for the events of which I am speaking happened not long ago and we can all

of us remember how the chief peoples of Hellas, Argives and Boeotians and Corinthians,

came to feel the need of us, and, what is the greatest miracle of all, the Persian king

himself was driven to such extremity as to come round to the opinion, that from this

city, of which he was the destroyer, and from no other, his salvation would proceed.

And if a person desired to bring a deserved accusation against our city, he would find

only one charge which he could justly urge—that she was too compassionate and too

favourable to the weaker side. And in this instance she was not able to hold out or keep

her resolution of refusing aid to her injurers when they were being enslaved, but she

was softened, and did in fact send out aid, and delivered the Hellenes from slavery, and

they were free until they afterwards enslaved themselves. Whereas, to the great king she

refused to give the assistance of the state, for she could not forget the trophies of

Marathon and Salamis and Plataea; but she allowed exiles and volunteers to assist him,

and they were his salvation. And she herself, when she was compelled, entered into the

war, and built walls and ships, and fought with the Lacedaemonians on behalf of the

Parians. Now the king fearing this city and wanting to stand aloof, when he saw the

Lacedaemonians growing weary of the war at sea, asked of us, as the price of his alliance

with us and the other allies, to give up the Hellenes in Asia, whom the Lacedaemonians

had previously handed over to him, he thinking that we should refuse, and that then he

might have a pretence for withdrawing from us. About the other allies he was mistaken,

for the Corinthians and Argives and Boeotians, and the other states, were quite willing

to let them go, and swore and covenanted, that, if he would pay them money, they

would make over to him the Hellenes of the continent, and we alone refused to give

them up and swear. Such was the natural nobility of this city, so sound and healthy was

the spirit of freedom among us, and the instinctive dislike of the barbarian, because we

are pure Hellenes, having no admixture of barbarism in us. For we are not like many

others, descendants of Pelops or Cadmus or Egyptus or Danaus, who are by nature

barbarians, and yet pass for Hellenes, and dwell in the midst of us; but we are pure

Hellenes, uncontaminated by any foreign element, and therefore the hatred of the

foreigner has passed unadulterated into the life-blood of the city. And so,

notwithstanding our noble sentiments, we were again isolated, because we were

unwilling to be guilty of the base and unholy act of giving up Hellenes to barbarians.

And we were in the same case as when we were subdued before; but, by the favour of

Heaven, we managed better, for we ended the war without the loss of our ships or walls

or colonies; the enemy was only too glad to be quit of us. Yet in this war we lost many

brave men, such as were those who fell owing to the ruggedness of the ground at the

battle of Corinth, or by treason at Lechaeum. Brave men, too, were those who delivered

the Persian king, and drove the Lacedaemonians from the sea. I remind you of them,

and you must celebrate them together with me, and do honour to their memories.

Such were the actions of the men who are here interred, and of others who have died

on behalf of their country; many and glorious things I have spoken of them, and there

are yet many more and more glorious things remaining to be told—many days and

nights would not suffice to tell of them. Let them not be forgotten, and let every man

remind their descendants that they also are soldiers who must not desert the ranks of

their ancestors, or from cowardice fall behind. Even as I exhort you this day, and in all

future time, whenever I meet with any of you, shall continue to remind and exhort you,

O ye sons of heroes, that you strive to be the bravest of men. And I think that I ought

now to repeat what your fathers desired to have said to you who are their survivors,

when they went out to battle, in case anything happened to them. I will tell you what I

heard them say, and what, if they had only speech, they would fain be saying, judging

from what they then said. And you must imagine that you hear them saying what I now

repeat to you:—

'Sons, the event proves that your fathers were brave men; for we might have lived

dishonourably, but have preferred to die honourably rather than bring you and your

children into disgrace, and rather than dishonour our own fathers and forefathers;

considering that life is not life to one who is a dishonour to his race, and that to such a

one neither men nor Gods are friendly, either while he is on the earth or after death in

the world below. Remember our words, then, and whatever is your aim let virtue be the

condition of the attainment of your aim, and know that without this all possessions and

pursuits are dishonourable and evil. For neither does wealth bring honour to the owner,

if he be a coward; of such a one the wealth belongs to another, and not to himself. Nor

does beauty and strength of body, when dwelling in a base and cowardly man, appear

comely, but the reverse of comely, making the possessor more conspicuous, and

manifesting forth his cowardice. And all knowledge, when separated from justice and

virtue, is seen to be cunning and not wisdom; wherefore make this your first and last

and constant and all-absorbing aim, to exceed, if possible, not only us but all your

ancestors in virtue; and know that to excel you in virtue only brings us shame, but that

to be excelled by you is a source of happiness to us. And we shall most likely be

defeated, and you will most likely be victors in the contest, if you learn so to order your

lives as not to abuse or waste the reputation of your ancestors, knowing that to a man

who has any self-respect, nothing is more dishonourable than to be honoured, not for

his own sake, but on account of the reputation of his ancestors. The honour of parents is

a fair and noble treasure to their posterity, but to have the use of a treasure of wealth

and honour, and to leave none to your successors, because you have neither money nor

reputation of your own, is alike base and dishonourable. And if you follow our precepts

you will be received by us as friends, when the hour of destiny brings you hither; but if

you neglect our words and are disgraced in your lives, no one will welcome or receive

you. This is the message which is to be delivered to our children.

'Some of us have fathers and mothers still living, and we would urge them, if, as is likely,

we shall die, to bear the calamity as lightly as possible, and not to condole with one

another; for they have sorrows enough, and will not need any one to stir them up. While

we gently heal their wounds, let us remind them that the Gods have heard the chief part

of their prayers; for they prayed, not that their children might live for ever, but that they

might be brave and renowned. And this, which is the greatest good, they have attained.

A mortal man cannot expect to have everything in his own life turning out according to

his will; and they, if they bear their misfortunes bravely, will be truly deemed brave

fathers of the brave. But if they give way to their sorrows, either they will be suspected

of not being our parents, or we of not being such as our panegyrists declare. Let not

either of the two alternatives happen, but rather let them be our chief and true

panegyrists, who show in their lives that they are true men, and had men for their sons.

Of old the saying, "Nothing too much," appeared to be, and really was, well said. For he

whose happiness rests with himself, if possible, wholly, and if not, as far as is possible,—

who is not hanging in suspense on other men, or changing with the vicissitude of their

fortune,—has his life ordered for the best. He is the temperate and valiant and wise; and

when his riches come and go, when his children are given and taken away, he will

remember the proverb— "Neither rejoicing overmuch nor grieving overmuch," for he

relies upon himself. And such we would have our parents to be—that is our word and

wish, and as such we now offer ourselves, neither lamenting overmuch, nor fearing

overmuch, if we are to die at this time. And we entreat our fathers and mothers to retain

these feelings throughout their future life, and to be assured that they will not please us

by sorrowing and lamenting over us. But, if the dead have any knowledge of the living,

they will displease us most by making themselves miserable and by taking their

misfortunes too much to heart, and they will please us best if they bear their loss lightly

and temperately. For our life will have the noblest end which is vouchsafed to man, and

should be glorified rather than lamented. And if they will direct their minds to the care

and nurture of our wives and children, they will soonest forget their misfortunes, and

live in a better and nobler way, and be dearer to us.

'This is all that we have to say to our families: and to the state we would say—Take care

of our parents and of our sons: let her worthily cherish the old age of our parents, and

bring up our sons in the right way. But we know that she will of her own accord take

care of them, and does not need any exhortation of ours.'

This, O ye children and parents of the dead, is the message which they bid us deliver to

you, and which I do deliver with the utmost seriousness. And in their name I beseech

you, the children, to imitate your fathers, and you, parents, to be of good cheer about

yourselves; for we will nourish your age, and take care of you both publicly and privately

in any place in which one of us may meet one of you who are the parents of the dead.

And the care of you which the city shows, you know yourselves; for she has made

provision by law concerning the parents and children of those who die in war; the

highest authority is specially entrusted with the duty of watching over them above all

other citizens, and they will see that your fathers and mothers have no wrong done to

them. The city herself shares in the education of the children, desiring as far as it is

possible that their orphanhood may not be felt by them; while they are children she is a

parent to them, and when they have arrived at man's estate she sends them to their

several duties, in full armour clad; and bringing freshly to their minds the ways of their

fathers, she places in their hands the instruments of their fathers' virtues; for the sake of

the omen, she would have them from the first begin to rule over their own houses

arrayed in the strength and arms of their fathers. And as for the dead, she never ceases

honouring them, celebrating in common for all rites which become the property of each;

and in addition to this, holding gymnastic and equestrian contests, and musical festivals

of every sort. She is to the dead in the place of a son and heir, and to their sons in the

place of a father, and to their parents and elder kindred in the place of a guardian—ever

and always caring for them. Considering this, you ought to bear your calamity the more

gently; for thus you will be most endeared to the dead and to the living, and your

sorrows will heal and be healed. And now do you and all, having lamented the dead in

common according to the law, go your ways.

You have heard, Menexenus, the oration of Aspasia the Milesian.

MENEXENUS: Truly, Socrates, I marvel that Aspasia, who is only a woman, should be able

to compose such a speech; she must be a rare one.

SOCRATES: Well, if you are incredulous, you may come with me and hear her.

MENEXENUS: I have often met Aspasia, Socrates, and know what she is like.

SOCRATES: Well, and do you not admire her, and are you not grateful for her speech?

MENEXENUS: Yes, Socrates, I am very grateful to her or to him who told you, and still

more to you who have told me.

SOCRATES: Very good. But you must take care not to tell of me, and then at some future

time I will repeat to you many other excellent political speeches of hers.

MENEXENUS: Fear not, only let me hear them, and I will keep the secret.

SOCRATES: Then I will keep my promise.

LESSER HIPPIAS

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Eudicus, Socrates, Hippias.

EUDICUS: Why are you silent, Socrates, after the magnificent display which

Hippias has been making? Why do you not either refute his words, if he

seems to you to have been wrong in any point, or join with us in commending

him? There is the more reason why you should speak, because we are now

alone, and the audience is confined to those who may fairly claim to take

part in a philosophical discussion.

SOCRATES: I should greatly like, Eudicus, to ask Hippias the meaning of

what he was saying just now about Homer. I have heard your father,

Apemantus, declare that the Iliad of Homer is a finer poem than the Odyssey

in the same degree that Achilles was a better man than Odysseus; Odysseus,

he would say, is the central figure of the one poem and Achilles of the

other. Now, I should like to know, if Hippias has no objection to tell me,

what he thinks about these two heroes, and which of them he maintains to be

the better; he has already told us in the course of his exhibition many

things of various kinds about Homer and divers other : I am sure that

Hippias will be delighted to answer anything which

you would like to ask; tell me, Hippias, if Socrates asks you a question,

will you answer him?

HIPPIAS: Indeed, Eudicus, I should be strangely inconsistent if I refused

to answer Socrates, when at each Olympic festival, as I went up from my

house at Elis to the temple of Olympia, where all the Hellenes were

assembled, I continually professed my willingness to perform any of the

exhibitions which I had prepared, and to answer any questions which any one

had to ask.

SOCRATES: Truly, Hippias, you are to be congratulated, if at every Olympic

festival you have such an encouraging opinion of your own wisdom when you

go up to the temple. I doubt whether any muscular hero would be so

fearless and confident in offering his body to the combat at Olympia, as

you are in offering your mind.

HIPPIAS: And with good reason, Socrates; for since the day when I first

entered the lists at Olympia I have never found any man who was my superior

in anything. (Compare Gorgias.)

SOCRATES: What an ornament, Hippias, will the reputation of your wisdom be

to the city of Elis and to your parents! But to return: what say you of

Odysseus and Achilles? Which is the better of the two? and in what

particular does either surpass the other? For when you were exhibiting and

there was company in the room, though I could not follow you, I did not

like to ask what you meant, because a crowd of people were present, and I

was afraid that the question might interrupt your exhibition. But now that

there are not so many of us, and my friend Eudicus bids me ask, I wish you

would tell me what you were saying about these two heroes, so that I may

clearly understand; how did you distinguish them?

HIPPIAS: I shall have much pleasure, Socrates, in explaining to you more

clearly than I could in public my views about these and also about other

heroes. I say that Homer intended Achilles to be the bravest of the men

who went to Troy, Nestor the wisest, and Odysseus the wiliest.

SOCRATES: O rare Hippias, will you be so good as not to laugh, if I find a

difficulty in following you, and repeat my questions several times over?

Please to answer me kindly and gently.

HIPPIAS: I should be greatly ashamed of myself, Socrates, if I, who teach

others and take money of them, could not, when I was asked by you, answer

in a civil and agreeable manner.

SOCRATES: Thank you: the fact is, that I seemed to understand what you

meant when you said that the poet intended Achilles to be the bravest of

men, and also that he intended Nestor to be the wisest; but when you said

that he meant Odysseus to be the wiliest, I must confess that I could not

understand what you were saying. Will you tell me, and then I shall

perhaps understand you better; has not Homer made Achilles wily?

HIPPIAS: Certainly not, Socrates; he is the most straight-forward of

mankind, and when Homer introduces them talking with one another in the

passage called the Prayers, Achilles is supposed by the poet to say to

Odysseus:-

'Son of Laertes, sprung from heaven, crafty Odysseus, I will speak out

plainly the word which I intend to carry out in act, and which will, I

believe, be accomplished. For I hate him like the gates of death who

thinks one thing and says another. But I will speak that which shall be

accomplished.'

Now, in these verses he clearly indicates the character of the two men; he

shows Achilles to be true and simple, and Odysseus to be wily and false;

for he supposes Achilles to be addressing Odysseus in these lines.

SOCRATES: Now, Hippias, I think that I understand your meaning; when you

say that Odysseus is wily, you clearly mean that he is false?

HIPPIAS: Exactly so, Socrates; it is the character of Odysseus, as he is

represented by Homer in many passages both of the Iliad and Odyssey.

SOCRATES: And Homer must be presumed to have meant that the true man is

not the same as the false?

HIPPIAS: Of course, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And is that your own opinion, Hippias?

HIPPIAS: Certainly; how can I have any other?

SOCRATES: Well, then, as there is no possibility of asking Homer what he

meant in these verses of his, let us leave him; but as you show a

willingness to take up his cause, and your opinion agrees with what you

declare to be his, will you answer on behalf of yourself and him?

HIPPIAS: I will; ask shortly anything which you like.

SOCRATES: Do you say that the false, like the sick, have no power to do

things, or that they have the power to do things?

HIPPIAS: I should say that they have power to do many things, and in

particular to deceive mankind.

SOCRATES: Then, according to you, they are both powerful and wily, are

they not?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And are they wily, and do they deceive by reason of their

simplicity and folly, or by reason of their cunning and a certain sort of

prudence?

HIPPIAS: By reason of their cunning and prudence, most certainly.

SOCRATES: Then they are prudent, I suppose?

HIPPIAS: So they are-very.

SOCRATES: And if they are prudent, do they know or do they not know what

they do?

HIPPIAS: Of course, they know very well; and that is why they do mischief

to others.

SOCRATES: And having this knowledge, are they ignorant, or are they wise?

HIPPIAS: Wise, certainly; at least, in so far as they can deceive.

SOCRATES: Stop, and let us recall to mind what you are saying; are you not

saying that the false are powerful and prudent and knowing and wise in

those things about which they are false?

HIPPIAS: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And the true differ from the false-the true and the false are

the very opposite of each other?

HIPPIAS: That is my view.

SOCRATES: Then, according to your view, it would seem that the false are

to be ranked in the class of the powerful and wise?

HIPPIAS: Assuredly.

SOCRATES: And when you say that the false are powerful and wise in so far

as they are false, do you mean that they have or have not the power of

uttering their falsehoods if they like?

HIPPIAS: I mean to say that they have the power.

SOCRATES: In a word, then, the false are they who are wise and have the

power to speak falsely?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then a man who has not the power of speaking falsely and is

ignorant cannot be false?

HIPPIAS: You are right.

SOCRATES: And every man has power who does that which he wishes at the

time when he wishes. I am not speaking of any special case in which he is

prevented by disease or something of that sort, but I am speaking

generally, as I might say of you, that you are able to write my name when

you like. Would you not call a man able who could do that?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And tell me, Hippias, are you not a skilful calculator and

arithmetician?

HIPPIAS: Yes, Socrates, assuredly I am.

SOCRATES: And if some one were to ask you what is the sum of 3 multiplied

by 700, you would tell him the true answer in a moment, if you pleased?

HIPPIAS: certainly I should.

SOCRATES: Is not that because you are the wisest and ablest of men in

these matters?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And being as you are the wisest and ablest of men in these

matters of calculation, are you not also the best?

HIPPIAS: To be sure, Socrates, I am the best.

SOCRATES: And therefore you would be the most able to tell the truth about

these matters, would you not?

HIPPIAS: Yes, I should.

SOCRATES: And could you speak falsehoods about them equally well? I must

beg, Hippias, that you will answer me with the same frankness and

magnanimity which has hitherto characterized you. If a person were to ask

you what is the sum of 3 multiplied by 700, would not you be the best and

most consistent teller of a falsehood, having always the power of speaking

falsely as you have of speaking truly, about these same matters, if you

wanted to tell a falsehood, and not to answer truly? Would the ignorant

man be better able to tell a falsehood in matters of calculation than you

would be, if you chose? Might he not sometimes stumble upon the truth,

when he wanted to tell a lie, because he did not know, whereas you who are

the wise man, if you wanted to tell a lie would always and consistently

lie?

HIPPIAS: Yes, there you are quite right.

SOCRATES: Does the false man tell lies about other things, but not about

number, or when he is making a calculation?

HIPPIAS: To be sure; he would tell as many lies about number as about

other things.

SOCRATES: Then may we further assume, Hippias, that there are men who are

false about calculation and number?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Who can they be? For you have already admitted that he who is

false must have the ability to be false: you said, as you will remember,

that he who is unable to be false will not be false?

HIPPIAS: Yes, I remember; it was so said.

SOCRATES: And were you not yourself just now shown to be best able to

speak falsely about calculation?

HIPPIAS: Yes; that was another thing which was said.

SOCRATES: And are you not likewise said to speak truly about calculation?

HIPPIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then the same person is able to speak both falsely and truly

about calculation? And that person is he who is good at calculation-the

arithmetician?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Who, then, Hippias, is discovered to be false at calculation?

Is he not the good man? For the good man is the able man, and he is the

true man.

HIPPIAS: That is evident.

SOCRATES: Do you not see, then, that the same man is false and also true

about the same matters? And the true man is not a whit better than the

false; for indeed he is the same with him and not the very opposite, as you

were just now imagining.

HIPPIAS: Not in that instance, clearly.

SOCRATES: Shall we examine other instances?

HIPPIAS: Certainly, if you are disposed.

SOCRATES: Are you not also skilled in geometry?

HIPPIAS: I am.

SOCRATES: Well, and does not the same hold in that science also? Is not

the same person best able to speak falsely or to speak truly about

diagrams; and he is-the geometrician?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: He and no one else is good at it?

HIPPIAS: Yes, he and no one else.

SOCRATES: Then the good and wise geometer has this double power in the

highest degree; and if there be a man who is false about diagrams the good

man will be he, for he is able to be false; whereas the bad is unable, and

for this reason is not false, as has been admitted.

HIPPIAS: True.

SOCRATES: Once more-let us examine a third case; that of the astronomer,

in whose art, again, you, Hippias, profess to be a still greater proficient

than in the preceding-do you not?

HIPPIAS: Yes, I am.

SOCRATES: And does not the same hold of astronomy?

HIPPIAS: True, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And in astronomy, too, if any man be able to speak falsely he

will be the good astronomer, but he who is not able will not speak falsely,

for he has no knowledge.

HIPPIAS: Clearly not.

SOCRATES: Then in astronomy also, the same man will be true and false?

HIPPIAS: It would seem so.

SOCRATES: And now, Hippias, consider the question at large about all the

sciences, and see whether the same principle does not always hold. I know

that in most arts you are the wisest of men, as I have heard you boasting

in the agora at the tables of the money-changers, when you were setting

forth the great and enviable stores of your wisdom; and you said that upon

one occasion, when you went to the Olympic games, all that you had on your

person was made by yourself. You began with your ring, which was of your

own workmanship, and you said that you could engrave rings; and you had

another seal which was also of your own workmanship, and a strigil and an

oil flask, which you had made yourself; you said also that you had made the

shoes which you had on your feet, and the cloak and the short tunic; but

what appeared to us all most extraordinary and a proof of singular art, was

the girdle of your tunic, which, you said, was as fine as the most costly

Persian fabric, and of your own weaving; moreover, you told us that you had

brought with you poems, epic, tragic, and dithyrambic, as well as prose

writings of the most various kinds; and you said that your skill was also

pre-eminent in the arts which I was just now mentioning, and in the true

principles of rhythm and harmony and of orthography; and if I remember

rightly, there were a great many other accomplishments in which you

excelled. I have forgotten to mention your art of memory, which you regard

as your special glory, and I dare say that I have forgotten many other

things; but, as I was saying, only look to your own arts-and there are

plenty of them-and to those of others; and tell me, having regard to the

admissions which you and I have made, whether you discover any department

of art or any description of wisdom or cunning, whichever name you use, in

which the true and false are different and not the same: tell me, if you

can, of any. But you cannot.

HIPPIAS: Not without consideration, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Nor will consideration help you, Hippias, as I believe; but then

if I am right, remember what the consequence will be.

HIPPIAS: I do not know what you mean, Socrates.

SOCRATES: I suppose that you are not using your art of memory, doubtless

because you think that such an accomplishment is not needed on the present

occasion. I will therefore remind you of what you were saying: were you

not saying that Achilles was a true man, and Odysseus false and wily?

HIPPIAS: I was.

SOCRATES: And now do you perceive that the same person has turned out to

be false as well as true? If Odysseus is false he is also true, and if

Achilles is true he is also false, and so the two men are not opposed to

one another, but they are alike.

HIPPIAS: O Socrates, you are always weaving the meshes of an argument,

selecting the most difficult point, and fastening upon details instead of

grappling with the matter in hand as a whole. Come now, and I will

demonstrate to you, if you will allow me, by many satisfactory proofs, that

Homer has made Achilles a better man than Odysseus, and a truthful man too;

and that he has made the other crafty, and a teller of many untruths, and

inferior to Achilles. And then, if you please, you shall make a speech on

the other side, in order to prove that Odysseus is the better man; and this

may be compared to mine, and then the company will know which of us is the

better speaker.

SOCRATES: O Hippias, I do not doubt that you are wiser than I am. But I

have a way, when anybody else says anything, of giving close attention to

him, especially if the speaker appears to me to be a wise man. Having a

desire to understand, I question him, and I examine and analyse and put

together what he says, in order that I may understand; but if the speaker

appears to me to be a poor hand, I do not interrogate him, or trouble

myself about him, and you may know by this who they are whom I deem to be

wise men, for you will see that when I am talking with a wise man, I am

very attentive to what he says; and I ask questions of him, in order that I

may learn, and be improved by him. And I could not help remarking while

you were speaking, that when you recited the verses in which Achilles, as

you argued, attacks Odysseus as a deceiver, that you must be strangely

mistaken, because Odysseus, the man of wiles, is never found to tell a lie;

but Achilles is found to be wily on your own showing. At any rate he

speaks falsely; for first he utters these words, which you just now

repeated,-

'He is hateful to me even as the gates of death who thinks one thing and

says another:'-

And then he says, a little while afterwards, he will not be persuaded by

Odysseus and Agamemnon, neither will he remain at Troy; but, says he,-

'To-morrow, when I have offered sacrifices to Zeus and all the Gods, having

loaded my ships well, I will drag them down into the deep; and then you

shall see, if you have a mind, and if such things are a care to you, early

in the morning my ships sailing over the fishy Hellespont, and my men

eagerly plying the oar; and, if the illustrious shaker of the earth gives

me a good voyage, on the third day I shall reach the fertile Phthia.'

And before that, when he was reviling Agamemnon, he said,-

'And now to Phthia I will go, since to return home in the beaked ships is

far better, nor am I inclined to stay here in dishonour and amass wealth

and riches for you.'

But although on that occasion, in the presence of the whole army, he spoke

after this fashion, and on the other occasion to his companions, he appears

never to have made any preparation or attempt to draw down the ships, as if

he had the least intention of sailing home; so nobly regardless was he of

the truth. Now I, Hippias, originally asked you the question, because I

was in doubt as to which of the two heroes was intended by the poet to be

the best, and because I thought that both of them were the best, and that

it would be difficult to decide which was the better of them, not only in

respect of truth and falsehood, but of virtue generally, for even in this

matter of speaking the truth they are much upon a par.

HIPPIAS: There you are wrong, Socrates; for in so far as Achilles speaks

falsely, the falsehood is obviously unintentional. He is compelled against

his will to remain and rescue the army in their misfortune. But when

Odysseus speaks falsely he is voluntarily and intentionally false.

SOCRATES: You, sweet Hippias, like Odysseus, are a deceiver yourself.

HIPPIAS: Certainly not, Socrates; what makes you say so?

SOCRATES: Because you say that Achilles does not speak falsely from

design, when he is not only a deceiver, but besides being a braggart, in

Homer's description of him is so cunning, and so far superior to Odysseus

in lying and pretending, that he dares to contradict himself, and Odysseus

does not find him out; at any rate he does not appear to say anything to

him which would imply that he perceived his falsehood.

HIPPIAS: What do you mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: Did you not observe that afterwards, when he is speaking to

Odysseus, he says that he will sail away with the early dawn; but to Ajax

he tells quite a different story?

HIPPIAS: Where is that?

SOCRATES: Where he says,-

'I will not think about bloody war until the son of warlike Priam,

illustrious Hector, comes to the tents and ships of the Myrmidons,

slaughtering the Argives, and burning the ships with fire; and about my

tent and dark ship, I suspect that Hector, although eager for the battle,

will nevertheless stay his hand.'

Now, do you really think, Hippias, that the son of Thetis, who had been the

pupil of the sage Cheiron, had such a bad memory, or would have carried the

art of lying to such an extent (when he had been assailing liars in the

most violent terms only the instant before) as to say to Odysseus that he

would sail away, and to Ajax that he would remain, and that he was not

rather practising upon the simplicity of Odysseus, whom he regarded as an

ancient, and thinking that he would get the better of him by his own

cunning and falsehood?

HIPPIAS: No, I do not agree with you, Socrates; but I believe that

Achilles is induced to say one thing to Ajax, and another to Odysseus in

the innocence of his heart, whereas Odysseus, whether he speaks falsely or

truly, speaks always with a purpose.

SOCRATES: Then Odysseus would appear after all to be better than Achilles?

HIPPIAS: Certainly not, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Why, were not the voluntary liars only just now shown to be

better than the involuntary?

HIPPIAS: And how, Socrates, can those who intentionally err, and

voluntarily and designedly commit iniquities, be better than those who err

and do wrong involuntarily? Surely there is a great excuse to be made for

a man telling a falsehood, or doing an injury or any sort of harm to

another in ignorance. And the laws are obviously far more severe on those

who lie or do evil, voluntarily, than on those who do evil involuntarily.

SOCRATES: You see, Hippias, as I have already told you, how pertinacious I

am in asking questions of wise men. And I think that this is the only good

point about me, for I am full of defects, and always getting wrong in some

way or other. My deficiency is proved to me by the fact that when I meet

one of you who are famous for wisdom, and to whose wisdom all the Hellenes

are witnesses, I am found out to know nothing. For speaking generally, I

hardly ever have the same opinion about anything which you have, and what

proof of ignorance can be greater than to differ from wise men? But I have

one singular good quality, which is my salvation; I am not ashamed to

learn, and I ask and enquire, and am very grateful to those who answer me,

and never fail to give them my grateful thanks; and when I learn a thing I

never deny my teacher, or pretend that the lesson is a discovery of my own;

but I praise his wisdom, and proclaim what I have learned from him. And

now I cannot agree in what you are saying, but I strongly disagree. Well,

I know that this is my own fault, and is a defect in my character, but I

will not pretend to be more than I am; and my opinion, Hippias, is the very

contrary of what you are saying. For I maintain that those who hurt or

injure mankind, and speak falsely and deceive, and err voluntarily, are

better far than those who do wrong involuntarily. Sometimes, however, I am

of the opposite opinion; for I am all abroad in my ideas about this matter,

a condition obviously occasioned by ignorance. And just now I happen to be

in a crisis of my disorder at which those who err voluntarily appear to me

better than those who err involuntarily. My present state of mind is due

to our previous argument, which inclines me to believe that in general

those who do wrong involuntarily are worse than those who do wrong

voluntarily, and therefore I hope that you will be good to me, and not

refuse to heal me; for you will do me a much greater benefit if you cure my

soul of ignorance, than you would if you were to cure my body of disease.

I must, however, tell you beforehand, that if you make a long oration to me

you will not cure me, for I shall not be able to follow you; but if you

will answer me, as you did just now, you will do me a great deal of good,

and I do not think that you will be any the worse yourself. And I have

some claim upon you also, O son of Apemantus, for you incited me to

converse with Hippias; and now, if Hippias will not answer me, you must

entreat him on my behalf.

EUDICUS: But I do not think, Socrates, that Hippias will require any

entreaty of mine; for he has already said that he will refuse to answer no

man.-Did you not say so, Hippias?

HIPPIAS: Yes, I did; but then, Eudicus, Socrates is always troublesome in

an argument, and appears to be dishonest. (Compare Gorgias; Republic.)

SOCRATES: Excellent Hippias, I do not do so intentionally (if I did, it

would show me to be a wise man and a master of wiles, as you would argue),

but unintentionally, and therefore you must pardon me; for, as you say, he

who is unintentionally dishonest should be pardoned.

EUDICUS: Yes, Hippias, do as he says; and for our sake, and also that you

may not belie your profession, answer whatever Socrates asks you.

HIPPIAS: I will answer, as you request me; and do you ask whatever you

like.

SOCRATES: I am very desirous, Hippias, of examining this question, as to

which are the better-those who err voluntarily or involuntarily? And if

you will answer me, I think that I can put you in the way of approaching

the subject: You would admit, would you not, that there are good runners?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And there are bad runners?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And he who runs well is a good runner, and he who runs ill is a

bad runner?

HIPPIAS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And he who runs slowly runs ill, and he who runs quickly runs

well?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then in a race, and in running, swiftness is a good, and

slowness is an evil quality?

HIPPIAS: To be sure.

SOCRATES: Which of the two then is a better runner? He who runs slowly

voluntarily, or he who runs slowly involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: He who runs slowly voluntarily.

SOCRATES: And is not running a species of doing?

HIPPIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And if a species of doing, a species of action?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then he who runs badly does a bad and dishonourable action in a

race?

HIPPIAS: Yes; a bad action, certainly.

SOCRATES: And he who runs slowly runs badly?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then the good runner does this bad and disgraceful action

voluntarily, and the bad involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: That is to be inferred.

SOCRATES: Then he who involuntarily does evil actions, is worse in a race

than he who does them voluntarily?

HIPPIAS: Yes, in a race.

SOCRATES: Well, but at a wrestling match-which is the better wrestler, he

who falls voluntarily or involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: He who falls voluntarily, doubtless.

SOCRATES: And is it worse or more dishonourable at a wrestling match, to

fall, or to throw another?

HIPPIAS: To fall.

SOCRATES: Then, at a wrestling match, he who voluntarily does base and

dishonourable actions is a better wrestler than he who does them

involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: That appears to be the truth.

SOCRATES: And what would you say of any other bodily exercise-is not he

who is better made able to do both that which is strong and that which is

weak-that which is fair and that which is foul?-so that when he does bad

actions with the body, he who is better made does them voluntarily, and he

who is worse made does them involuntarily.

HIPPIAS: Yes, that appears to be true about strength.

SOCRATES: And what do you say about grace, Hippias? Is not he who is

better made able to assume evil and disgraceful figures and postures

voluntarily, as he who is worse made assumes them involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: True.

SOCRATES: Then voluntary ungracefulness comes from excellence of the

bodily frame, and involuntary from the defect of the bodily frame?

HIPPIAS: True.

SOCRATES: And what would you say of an unmusical voice; would you prefer

the voice which is voluntarily or involuntarily out of tune?

HIPPIAS: That which is voluntarily out of tune.

SOCRATES: The involuntary is the worse of the two?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And would you choose to possess goods or evils?

HIPPIAS: Goods.

SOCRATES: And would you rather have feet which are voluntarily or

involuntarily lame?

HIPPIAS: Feet which are voluntarily lame.

SOCRATES: But is not lameness a defect or deformity?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And is not blinking a defect in the eyes?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And would you rather always have eyes with which you might

voluntarily blink and not see, or with which you might involuntarily blink?

HIPPIAS: I would rather have eyes which voluntarily blink.

SOCRATES: Then in your own case you deem that which voluntarily acts ill,

better than that which involuntarily acts ill?

HIPPIAS: Yes, certainly, in cases such as you mention.

SOCRATES: And does not the same hold of ears, nostrils, mouth, and of all

the senses-those which involuntarily act ill are not to be desired, as

being defective; and those which voluntarily act ill are to be desired as

being good?

HIPPIAS: I agree.

SOCRATES: And what would you say of instruments;-which are the better

sort of instruments to have to do with?-those with which a man acts ill

voluntarily or involuntarily? For example, had a man better have a rudder

with which he will steer ill, voluntarily or involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: He had better have a rudder with which he will steer ill

voluntarily.

SOCRATES: And does not the same hold of the bow and the lyre, the flute

and all other things?

HIPPIAS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And would you rather have a horse of such a temper that you may

ride him ill voluntarily or involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: I would rather have a horse which I could ride ill voluntarily.

SOCRATES: That would be the better horse?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then with a horse of better temper, vicious actions would be

produced voluntarily; and with a horse of bad temper involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And that would be true of a dog, or of any other animal?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And is it better to possess the mind of an archer who

voluntarily or involuntarily misses the mark?

HIPPIAS: Of him who voluntarily misses.

SOCRATES: This would be the better mind for the purposes of archery?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then the mind which involuntarily errs is worse than the mind

which errs voluntarily?

HIPPIAS: Yes, certainly, in the use of the bow.

SOCRATES: And what would you say of the art of medicine;-has not the mind

which voluntarily works harm to the body, more of the healing art?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then in the art of medicine the voluntary is better than the

involuntary?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Well, and in lute-playing and in flute-playing, and in all arts

and sciences, is not that mind the better which voluntarily does what is

evil and dishonourable, and goes wrong, and is not the worse that which

does so involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: That is evident.

SOCRATES: And what would you say of the characters of slaves? Should we

not prefer to have those who voluntarily do wrong and make mistakes, and

are they not better in their mistakes than those who commit them

involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And should we not desire to have our own minds in the best state

possible?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And will our minds be better if they do wrong and make mistakes

voluntarily or involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: O, Socrates, it would be a monstrous thing to say that those who

do wrong voluntarily are better than those who do wrong involuntarily!

SOCRATES: And yet that appears to be the only inference.

HIPPIAS: I do not think so.

SOCRATES: But I imagined, Hippias, that you did. Please to answer once

more: Is not justice a power, or knowledge, or both? Must not justice, at

all events, be one of these?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: But if justice is a power of the soul, then the soul which has

the greater power is also the more just; for that which has the greater

power, my good friend, has been proved by us to be the better.

HIPPIAS: Yes, that has been proved.

SOCRATES: And if justice is knowledge, then the wiser will be the juster

soul, and the more ignorant the more unjust?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: But if justice be power as well as knowledge-then will not the

soul which has both knowledge and power be the more just, and that which is

the more ignorant be the more unjust? Must it not be so?

HIPPIAS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: And is not the soul which has the greater power and wisdom also

better, and better able to do both good and evil in every action?

HIPPIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: The soul, then, which acts ill, acts voluntarily by power and

art-and these either one or both of them are elements of justice?

HIPPIAS: That seems to be true.

SOCRATES: And to do injustice is to do ill, and not to do injustice is to

do well?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And will not the better and abler soul when it does wrong, do

wrong voluntarily, and the bad soul involuntarily?

HIPPIAS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: And the good man is he who has the good soul, and the bad man is

he who has the bad?

HIPPIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then the good man will voluntarily do wrong, and the bad man

involuntarily, if the good man is he who has the good soul?

HIPPIAS: Which he certainly has.

SOCRATES: Then, Hippias, he who voluntarily does wrong and disgraceful

things, if there be such a man, will be the good man?

HIPPIAS: There I cannot agree with you.

SOCRATES: Nor can I agree with myself, Hippias; and yet that seems to be

the conclusion which, as far as we can see at present, must follow from our

argument. As I was saying before, I am all abroad, and being in perplexity

am always changing my opinion. Now, that I or any ordinary man should

wander in perplexity is not surprising; but if you wise men also wander,

and we cannot come to you and rest from our wandering, the matter begins to

be serious both to us and to you

ION

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Ion.

SOCRATES: Welcome, Ion. Are you from your native city of Ephesus?

ION: No, Socrates; but from Epidaurus, where I attended the festival of Asclepius.

SOCRATES: And do the Epidaurians have contests of rhapsodes at the festival?

ION: O yes; and of all sorts of musical performers.

SOCRATES: And were you one of the competitors—and did you succeed?

ION: I obtained the first prize of all, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Well done; and I hope that you will do the same for us at the Panathenaea.

ION: And I will, please heaven.

SOCRATES: I often envy the profession of a rhapsode, Ion; for you have always to wear

fine clothes, and to look as beautiful as you can is a part of your art. Then, again, you are

obliged to be continually in the company of many good poets; and especially of Homer,

who is the best and most divine of them; and to understand him, and not merely learn

his words by rote, is a thing greatly to be envied. And no man can be a rhapsode who

does not understand the meaning of the poet. For the rhapsode ought to interpret the

mind of the poet to his hearers, but how can he interpret him well unless he knows what

he means? All this is greatly to be envied.

ION: Very true, Socrates; interpretation has certainly been the most laborious part of my

art; and I believe myself able to speak about Homer better than any man; and that

neither Metrodorus of Lampsacus, nor Stesimbrotus of Thasos, nor Glaucon, nor any

one else who ever was, had as good ideas about Homer as I have, or as many.

SOCRATES: I am glad to hear you say so, Ion; I see that you will not refuse to acquaint

me with them.

ION: Certainly, Socrates; and you really ought to hear how exquisitely I render Homer. I

think that the Homeridae should give me a golden crown.

SOCRATES: I shall take an opportunity of hearing your embellishments of him at some

other time. But just now I should like to ask you a question: Does your art extend to

Hesiod and Archilochus, or to Homer only?

ION: To Homer only; he is in himself quite enough.

SOCRATES: Are there any things about which Homer and Hesiod agree?

ION: Yes; in my opinion there are a good many.

SOCRATES: And can you interpret better what Homer says, or what Hesiod says, about

these matters in which they agree?

ION: I can interpret them equally well, Socrates, where they agree.

SOCRATES: But what about matters in which they do not agree?—for example, about

divination, of which both Homer and Hesiod have something to say,—

ION: Very true:

SOCRATES: Would you or a good prophet be a better interpreter of what these two

poets say about divination, not only when they agree, but when they disagree?

ION: A prophet.

SOCRATES: And if you were a prophet, would you not be able to interpret them when

they disagree as well as when they agree?

ION: Clearly.

SOCRATES: But how did you come to have this skill about Homer only, and not about

Hesiod or the other poets? Does not Homer speak of the same themes which all other

poets handle? Is not war his great argument? and does he not speak of human society

and of intercourse of men, good and bad, skilled and unskilled, and of the gods

conversing with one another and with mankind, and about what happens in heaven and

in the world below, and the generations of gods and heroes? Are not these the themes

of which Homer sings?

ION: Very true, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And do not the other poets sing of the same?

ION: Yes, Socrates; but not in the same way as Homer.

SOCRATES: What, in a worse way?

ION: Yes, in a far worse.

SOCRATES: And Homer in a better way?

ION: He is incomparably better.

SOCRATES: And yet surely, my dear friend Ion, in a discussion about arithmetic, where

many people are speaking, and one speaks better than the rest, there is somebody who

can judge which of them is the good speaker?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: And he who judges of the good will be the same as he who judges of the

bad speakers?

ION: The same.

SOCRATES: And he will be the arithmetician?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: Well, and in discussions about the wholesomeness of food, when many

persons are speaking, and one speaks better than the rest, will he who recognizes the

better speaker be a different person from him who recognizes the worse, or the same?

ION: Clearly the same.

SOCRATES: And who is he, and what is his name?

ION: The physician.

SOCRATES: And speaking generally, in all discussions in which the subject is the same

and many men are speaking, will not he who knows the good know the bad speaker

also? For if he does not know the bad, neither will he know the good when the same

topic is being discussed.

ION: True.

SOCRATES: Is not the same person skilful in both?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: And you say that Homer and the other poets, such as Hesiod and

Archilochus, speak of the same things, although not in the same way; but the one

speaks well and the other not so well?

ION: Yes; and I am right in saying so.

SOCRATES: And if you knew the good speaker, you would also know the inferior

speakers to be inferior?

ION: That is true.

SOCRATES: Then, my dear friend, can I be mistaken in saying that Ion is equally skilled in

Homer and in other poets, since he himself acknowledges that the same person will be a

good judge of all those who speak of the same things; and that almost all poets do

speak of the same things?

ION: Why then, Socrates, do I lose attention and go to sleep and have absolutely no

ideas of the least value, when any one speaks of any other poet; but when Homer is

mentioned, I wake up at once and am all attention and have plenty to say?

SOCRATES: The reason, my friend, is obvious. No one can fail to see that you speak of

Homer without any art or knowledge. If you were able to speak of him by rules of art,

you would have been able to speak of all other poets; for poetry is a whole.

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: And when any one acquires any other art as a whole, the same may be said

of them. Would you like me to explain my meaning, Ion?

ION: Yes, indeed, Socrates; I very much wish that you would: for I love to hear you wise

men talk.

SOCRATES: O that we were wise, Ion, and that you could truly call us so; but you

rhapsodes and actors, and the poets whose verses you sing, are wise; whereas I am a

common man, who only speak the truth. For consider what a very commonplace and

trivial thing is this which I have said—a thing which any man might say: that when a man

has acquired a knowledge of a whole art, the enquiry into good and bad is one and the

same. Let us consider this matter; is not the art of painting a whole?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: And there are and have been many painters good and bad?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: And did you ever know any one who was skilful in pointing out the

excellences and defects of Polygnotus the son of Aglaophon, but incapable of criticizing

other painters; and when the work of any other painter was produced, went to sleep and

was at a loss, and had no ideas; but when he had to give his opinion about Polygnotus,

or whoever the painter might be, and about him only, woke up and was attentive and

had plenty to say?

ION: No indeed, I have never known such a person.

SOCRATES: Or did you ever know of any one in sculpture, who was skilful in expounding

the merits of Daedalus the son of Metion, or of Epeius the son of Panopeus, or of

Theodorus the Samian, or of any individual sculptor; but when the works of sculptors in

general were produced, was at a loss and went to sleep and had nothing to say?

ION: No indeed; no more than the other.

SOCRATES: And if I am not mistaken, you never met with any one among flute-players

or harp-players or singers to the harp or rhapsodes who was able to discourse of

Olympus or Thamyras or Orpheus, or Phemius the rhapsode of Ithaca, but was at a loss

when he came to speak of Ion of Ephesus, and had no notion of his merits or defects?

ION: I cannot deny what you say, Socrates. Nevertheless I am conscious in my own self,

and the world agrees with me in thinking that I do speak better and have more to say

about Homer than any other man. But I do not speak equally well about others—tell me

the reason of this.

SOCRATES: I perceive, Ion; and I will proceed to explain to you what I imagine to be the

reason of this. The gift which you possess of speaking excellently about Homer is not an

art, but, as I was just saying, an inspiration; there is a divinity moving you, like that

contained in the stone which Euripides calls a magnet, but which is commonly known as

the stone of Heraclea. This stone not only attracts iron rings, but also imparts to them a

similar power of attracting other rings; and sometimes you may see a number of pieces

of iron and rings suspended from one another so as to form quite a long chain: and all

of them derive their power of suspension from the original stone. In like manner the

Muse first of all inspires men herself; and from these inspired persons a chain of other

persons is suspended, who take the inspiration. For all good poets, epic as well as lyric,

compose their beautiful poems not by art, but because they are inspired and possessed.

And as the Corybantian revellers when they dance are not in their right mind, so the lyric

poets are not in their right mind when they are composing their beautiful strains: but

when falling under the power of music and metre they are inspired and possessed; like

Bacchic maidens who draw milk and honey from the rivers when they are under the

influence of Dionysus but not when they are in their right mind. And the soul of the lyric

poet does the same, as they themselves say; for they tell us that they bring songs from

honeyed fountains, culling them out of the gardens and dells of the Muses; they, like the

bees, winging their way from flower to flower. And this is true. For the poet is a light and

winged and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he has been inspired and is

out of his senses, and the mind is no longer in him: when he has not attained to this

state, he is powerless and is unable to utter his oracles. Many are the noble words in

which poets speak concerning the actions of men; but like yourself when speaking

about Homer, they do not speak of them by any rules of art: they are simply inspired to

utter that to which the Muse impels them, and that only; and when inspired, one of

them will make dithyrambs, another hymns of praise, another choral strains, another

epic or iambic verses—and he who is good at one is not good at any other kind of

verse: for not by art does the poet sing, but by power divine. Had he learned by rules of

art, he would have known how to speak not of one theme only, but of all; and therefore

God takes away the minds of poets, and uses them as his ministers, as he also uses

diviners and holy prophets, in order that we who hear them may know them to be

speaking not of themselves who utter these priceless words in a state of

unconsciousness, but that God himself is the speaker, and that through them he is

conversing with us. And Tynnichus the Chalcidian affords a striking instance of what I

am saying: he wrote nothing that any one would care to remember but the famous

paean which is in every one's mouth, one of the finest poems ever written, simply an

invention of the Muses, as he himself says. For in this way the God would seem to

indicate to us and not allow us to doubt that these beautiful poems are not human, or

the work of man, but divine and the work of God; and that the poets are only the

interpreters of the Gods by whom they are severally possessed. Was not this the lesson

which the God intended to teach when by the mouth of the worst of poets he sang the

best of songs? Am I not right, Ion?

ION: Yes, indeed, Socrates, I feel that you are; for your words touch my soul, and I am

persuaded that good poets by a divine inspiration interpret the things of the Gods to us.

SOCRATES: And you rhapsodists are the interpreters of the poets?

ION: There again you are right.

SOCRATES: Then you are the interpreters of interpreters?

ION: Precisely.

SOCRATES: I wish you would frankly tell me, Ion, what I am going to ask of you: When

you produce the greatest effect upon the audience in the recitation of some striking

passage, such as the apparition of Odysseus leaping forth on the floor, recognized by

the suitors and casting his arrows at his feet, or the description of Achilles rushing at

Hector, or the sorrows of Andromache, Hecuba, or Priam,—are you in your right mind?

Are you not carried out of yourself, and does not your soul in an ecstasy seem to be

among the persons or places of which you are speaking, whether they are in Ithaca or in

Troy or whatever may be the scene of the poem?

ION: That proof strikes home to me, Socrates. For I must frankly confess that at the tale

of pity my eyes are filled with tears, and when I speak of horrors, my hair stands on end

and my heart throbs.

SOCRATES: Well, Ion, and what are we to say of a man who at a sacrifice or festival,

when he is dressed in holiday attire, and has golden crowns upon his head, of which

nobody has robbed him, appears weeping or panic-stricken in the presence of more

than twenty thousand friendly faces, when there is no one despoiling or wronging

him;—is he in his right mind or is he not?

ION: No indeed, Socrates, I must say that, strictly speaking, he is not in his right mind.

SOCRATES: And are you aware that you produce similar effects on most of the

spectators?

ION: Only too well; for I look down upon them from the stage, and behold the various

emotions of pity, wonder, sternness, stamped upon their countenances when I am

speaking: and I am obliged to give my very best attention to them; for if I make them

cry I myself shall laugh, and if I make them laugh I myself shall cry when the time of

payment arrives.

SOCRATES: Do you know that the spectator is the last of the rings which, as I am saying,

receive the power of the original magnet from one another? The rhapsode like yourself

and the actor are intermediate links, and the poet himself is the first of them. Through

all these the God sways the souls of men in any direction which he pleases, and makes

one man hang down from another. Thus there is a vast chain of dancers and masters

and under- masters of choruses, who are suspended, as if from the stone, at the side of

the rings which hang down from the Muse. And every poet has some Muse from whom

he is suspended, and by whom he is said to be possessed, which is nearly the same

thing; for he is taken hold of. And from these first rings, which are the poets, depend

others, some deriving their inspiration from Orpheus, others from Musaeus; but the

greater number are possessed and held by Homer. Of whom, Ion, you are one, and are

possessed by Homer; and when any one repeats the words of another poet you go to

sleep, and know not what to say; but when any one recites a strain of Homer you wake

up in a moment, and your soul leaps within you, and you have plenty to say; for not by

art or knowledge about Homer do you say what you say, but by divine inspiration and

by possession; just as the Corybantian revellers too have a quick perception of that

strain only which is appropriated to the God by whom they are possessed, and have

plenty of dances and words for that, but take no heed of any other. And you, Ion, when

the name of Homer is mentioned have plenty to say, and have nothing to say of others.

You ask, 'Why is this?' The answer is that you praise Homer not by art but by divine

inspiration.

ION: That is good, Socrates; and yet I doubt whether you will ever have eloquence

enough to persuade me that I praise Homer only when I am mad and possessed; and if

you could hear me speak of him I am sure you would never think this to be the case.

SOCRATES: I should like very much to hear you, but not until you have answered a

question which I have to ask. On what part of Homer do you speak well?—not surely

about every part.

ION: There is no part, Socrates, about which I do not speak well: of that I can assure you.

SOCRATES: Surely not about things in Homer of which you have no knowledge?

ION: And what is there in Homer of which I have no knowledge?

SOCRATES: Why, does not Homer speak in many passages about arts? For example,

about driving; if I can only remember the lines I will repeat them.

ION: I remember, and will repeat them.

SOCRATES: Tell me then, what Nestor says to Antilochus, his son, where he bids him be

careful of the turn at the horserace in honour of Patroclus.

ION: 'Bend gently,' he says, 'in the polished chariot to the left of them, and urge the

horse on the right hand with whip and voice; and slacken the rein. And when you are at

the goal, let the left horse draw near, yet so that the nave of the well-wrought wheel

may not even seem to touch the extremity; and avoid catching the stone (Il.).'

SOCRATES: Enough. Now, Ion, will the charioteer or the physician be the better judge of

the propriety of these lines?

ION: The charioteer, clearly.

SOCRATES: And will the reason be that this is his art, or will there be any other reason?

ION: No, that will be the reason.

SOCRATES: And every art is appointed by God to have knowledge of a certain work; for

that which we know by the art of the pilot we do not know by the art of medicine?

ION: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Nor do we know by the art of the carpenter that which we know by the art

of medicine?

ION: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: And this is true of all the arts;—that which we know with one art we do not

know with the other? But let me ask a prior question: You admit that there are

differences of arts?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: You would argue, as I should, that when one art is of one kind of knowledge

and another of another, they are different?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: Yes, surely; for if the subject of knowledge were the same, there would be

no meaning in saying that the arts were different,—if they both gave the same

knowledge. For example, I know that here are five fingers, and you know the same. And

if I were to ask whether I and you became acquainted with this fact by the help of the

same art of arithmetic, you would acknowledge that we did?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: Tell me, then, what I was intending to ask you,—whether this holds

universally? Must the same art have the same subject of knowledge, and different arts

other subjects of knowledge?

ION: That is my opinion, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then he who has no knowledge of a particular art will have no right

judgment of the sayings and doings of that art?

ION: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then which will be a better judge of the lines which you were reciting from

Homer, you or the charioteer?

ION: The charioteer.

SOCRATES: Why, yes, because you are a rhapsode and not a charioteer.

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the art of the rhapsode is different from that of the charioteer?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if a different knowledge, then a knowledge of different matters?

ION: True.

SOCRATES: You know the passage in which Hecamede, the concubine of Nestor, is

described as giving to the wounded Machaon a posset, as he says,

'Made with Pramnian wine; and she grated cheese of goat's milk with a grater of bronze,

and at his side placed an onion which gives a relish to drink (Il.).'

Now would you say that the art of the rhapsode or the art of medicine was better able

to judge of the propriety of these lines?

ION: The art of medicine.

SOCRATES: And when Homer says,

'And she descended into the deep like a leaden plummet, which, set in the horn of ox

that ranges in the fields, rushes along carrying death among the ravenous fishes (Il.),'—

will the art of the fisherman or of the rhapsode be better able to judge whether these

lines are rightly expressed or not?

ION: Clearly, Socrates, the art of the fisherman.

SOCRATES: Come now, suppose that you were to say to me: 'Since you, Socrates, are

able to assign different passages in Homer to their corresponding arts, I wish that you

would tell me what are the passages of which the excellence ought to be judged by the

prophet and prophetic art'; and you will see how readily and truly I shall answer you. For

there are many such passages, particularly in the Odyssee; as, for example, the passage

in which Theoclymenus the prophet of the house of Melampus says to the suitors:—

'Wretched men! what is happening to you? Your heads and your faces and your limbs

underneath are shrouded in night; and the voice of lamentation bursts forth, and your

cheeks are wet with tears. And the vestibule is full, and the court is full, of ghosts

descending into the darkness of Erebus, and the sun has perished out of heaven, and an

evil mist is spread abroad (Od.).'

And there are many such passages in the Iliad also; as for example in the description of

the battle near the rampart, where he says:—

'As they were eager to pass the ditch, there came to them an omen: a soaring eagle,

holding back the people on the left, bore a huge bloody dragon in his talons, still living

and panting; nor had he yet resigned the strife, for he bent back and smote the bird

which carried him on the breast by the neck, and he in pain let him fall from him to the

ground into the midst of the multitude. And the eagle, with a cry, was borne afar on the

wings of the wind (Il.).'

These are the sort of things which I should say that the prophet ought to consider and

determine.

ION: And you are quite right, Socrates, in saying so.

SOCRATES: Yes, Ion, and you are right also. And as I have selected from the Iliad and

Odyssee for you passages which describe the office of the prophet and the physician

and the fisherman, do you, who know Homer so much better than I do, Ion, select for

me passages which relate to the rhapsode and the rhapsode's art, and which the

rhapsode ought to examine and judge of better than other men.

ION: All passages, I should say, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Not all, Ion, surely. Have you already forgotten what you were saying? A

rhapsode ought to have a better memory.

ION: Why, what am I forgetting?

SOCRATES: Do you not remember that you declared the art of the rhapsode to be

different from the art of the charioteer?

ION: Yes, I remember.

SOCRATES: And you admitted that being different they would have different subjects of

knowledge?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then upon your own showing the rhapsode, and the art of the rhapsode, will

not know everything?

ION: I should exclude certain things, Socrates.

SOCRATES: You mean to say that you would exclude pretty much the subjects of the

other arts. As he does not know all of them, which of them will he know?

ION: He will know what a man and what a woman ought to say, and what a freeman and

what a slave ought to say, and what a ruler and what a subject.

SOCRATES: Do you mean that a rhapsode will know better than the pilot what the ruler

of a sea-tossed vessel ought to say?

ION: No; the pilot will know best.

SOCRATES: Or will the rhapsode know better than the physician what the ruler of a sick

man ought to say?

ION: He will not.

SOCRATES: But he will know what a slave ought to say?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: Suppose the slave to be a cowherd; the rhapsode will know better than the

cowherd what he ought to say in order to soothe the infuriated cows?

ION: No, he will not.

SOCRATES: But he will know what a spinning-woman ought to say about the working of

wool?

ION: No.

SOCRATES: At any rate he will know what a general ought to say when exhorting his

soldiers?

ION: Yes, that is the sort of thing which the rhapsode will be sure to know.

SOCRATES: Well, but is the art of the rhapsode the art of the general?

ION: I am sure that I should know what a general ought to say.

SOCRATES: Why, yes, Ion, because you may possibly have a knowledge of the art of the

general as well as of the rhapsode; and you may also have a knowledge of

horsemanship as well as of the lyre: and then you would know when horses were well or

ill managed. But suppose I were to ask you: By the help of which art, Ion, do you know

whether horses are well managed, by your skill as a horseman or as a performer on the

lyre—what would you answer?

ION: I should reply, by my skill as a horseman.

SOCRATES: And if you judged of performers on the lyre, you would admit that you

judged of them as a performer on the lyre, and not as a horseman?

ION: Yes.

SOCRATES: And in judging of the general's art, do you judge of it as a general or a

rhapsode?

ION: To me there appears to be no difference between them.

SOCRATES: What do you mean? Do you mean to say that the art of the rhapsode and of

the general is the same?

ION: Yes, one and the same.

SOCRATES: Then he who is a good rhapsode is also a good general?

ION: Certainly, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And he who is a good general is also a good rhapsode?

ION: No; I do not say that.

SOCRATES: But you do say that he who is a good rhapsode is also a good general.

ION: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And you are the best of Hellenic rhapsodes?

ION: Far the best, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And are you the best general, Ion?

ION: To be sure, Socrates; and Homer was my master.

SOCRATES: But then, Ion, what in the name of goodness can be the reason why you,

who are the best of generals as well as the best of rhapsodes in all Hellas, go about as a

rhapsode when you might be a general? Do you think that the Hellenes want a

rhapsode with his golden crown, and do not want a general?

ION: Why, Socrates, the reason is, that my countrymen, the Ephesians, are the servants

and soldiers of Athens, and do not need a general; and you and Sparta are not likely to

have me, for you think that you have enough generals of your own.

SOCRATES: My good Ion, did you never hear of Apollodorus of Cyzicus?

ION: Who may he be?

SOCRATES: One who, though a foreigner, has often been chosen their general by the

Athenians: and there is Phanosthenes of Andros, and Heraclides of Clazomenae, whom

they have also appointed to the command of their armies and to other offices, although

aliens, after they had shown their merit. And will they not choose Ion the Ephesian to be

their general, and honour him, if he prove himself worthy? Were not the Ephesians

originally Athenians, and Ephesus is no mean city? But, indeed, Ion, if you are correct in

saying that by art and knowledge you are able to praise Homer, you do not deal fairly

with me, and after all your professions of knowing many glorious things about Homer,

and promises that you would exhibit them, you are only a deceiver, and so far from

exhibiting the art of which you are a master, will not, even after my repeated entreaties,

explain to me the nature of it. You have literally as many forms as Proteus; and now you

go all manner of ways, twisting and turning, and, like Proteus, become all manner of

people at once, and at last slip away from me in the disguise of a general, in order that

you may escape exhibiting your Homeric lore. And if you have art, then, as I was saying,

in falsifying your promise that you would exhibit Homer, you are not dealing fairly with

me. But if, as I believe, you have no art, but speak all these beautiful words about Homer

unconsciously under his inspiring influence, then I acquit you of dishonesty, and shall

only say that you are inspired. Which do you prefer to be thought, dishonest or

inspired?

ION: There is a great difference, Socrates, between the two alternatives; and inspiration

is by far the nobler.

SOCRATES: Then, Ion, I shall assume the nobler alternative; and attribute to you in your

praises of Homer inspiration, and not art.

THE END

GORGIAS

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Callicles, Socrates, Chaerephon, Gorgias, Polus.

SCENE: The house of Callicles.

CALLICLES: The wise man, as the proverb says, is late for a fray, but not for a feast.

SOCRATES: And are we late for a feast?

CALLICLES: Yes, and a delightful feast; for Gorgias has just been exhibiting to us many

fine things.

SOCRATES: It is not my fault, Callicles; our friend Chaerephon is to blame; for he would

keep us loitering in the Agora.

CHAEREPHON: Never mind, Socrates; the misfortune of which I have been the cause I

will also repair; for Gorgias is a friend of mine, and I will make him give the exhibition

again either now, or, if you prefer, at some other time.

CALLICLES: What is the matter, Chaerephon—does Socrates want to hear Gorgias?

CHAEREPHON: Yes, that was our intention in coming.

CALLICLES: Come into my house, then; for Gorgias is staying with me, and he shall

exhibit to you.

SOCRATES: Very good, Callicles; but will he answer our questions? for I want to hear

from him what is the nature of his art, and what it is which he professes and teaches; he

may, as you (Chaerephon) suggest, defer the exhibition to some other time.

CALLICLES: There is nothing like asking him, Socrates; and indeed to answer questions is

a part of his exhibition, for he was saying only just now, that any one in my house might

put any question to him, and that he would answer.

SOCRATES: How fortunate! will you ask him, Chaerephon—?

CHAEREPHON: What shall I ask him?

SOCRATES: Ask him who he is.

CHAEREPHON: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: I mean such a question as would elicit from him, if he had been a maker of

shoes, the answer that he is a cobbler. Do you understand?

CHAEREPHON: I understand, and will ask him: Tell me, Gorgias, is our friend Callicles

right in saying that you undertake to answer any questions which you are asked?

GORGIAS: Quite right, Chaerephon: I was saying as much only just now; and I may add,

that many years have elapsed since any one has asked me a new one.

CHAEREPHON: Then you must be very ready, Gorgias.

GORGIAS: Of that, Chaerephon, you can make trial.

POLUS: Yes, indeed, and if you like, Chaerephon, you may make trial of me too, for I

think that Gorgias, who has been talking a long time, is tired.

CHAEREPHON: And do you, Polus, think that you can answer better than Gorgias?

POLUS: What does that matter if I answer well enough for you?

CHAEREPHON: Not at all:—and you shall answer if you like.

POLUS: Ask:—

CHAEREPHON: My question is this: If Gorgias had the skill of his brother Herodicus,

what ought we to call him? Ought he not to have the name which is given to his

brother?

POLUS: Certainly.

CHAEREPHON: Then we should be right in calling him a physician?

POLUS: Yes.

CHAEREPHON: And if he had the skill of Aristophon the son of Aglaophon, or of his

brother Polygnotus, what ought we to call him?

POLUS: Clearly, a painter.

CHAEREPHON: But now what shall we call him—what is the art in which he is skilled.

POLUS: O Chaerephon, there are many arts among mankind which are experimental,

and have their origin in experience, for experience makes the days of men to proceed

according to art, and inexperience according to chance, and different persons in

different ways are proficient in different arts, and the best persons in the best arts. And

our friend Gorgias is one of the best, and the art in which he is a proficient is the

noblest.

SOCRATES: Polus has been taught how to make a capital speech, Gorgias; but he is not

fulfilling the promise which he made to Chaerephon.

GORGIAS: What do you mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I mean that he has not exactly answered the question which he was asked.

GORGIAS: Then why not ask him yourself?

SOCRATES: But I would much rather ask you, if you are disposed to answer: for I see,

from the few words which Polus has uttered, that he has attended more to the art which

is called rhetoric than to dialectic.

POLUS: What makes you say so, Socrates?

SOCRATES: Because, Polus, when Chaerephon asked you what was the art which Gorgias

knows, you praised it as if you were answering some one who found fault with it, but

you never said what the art was.

POLUS: Why, did I not say that it was the noblest of arts?

SOCRATES: Yes, indeed, but that was no answer to the question: nobody asked what

was the quality, but what was the nature, of the art, and by what name we were to

describe Gorgias. And I would still beg you briefly and clearly, as you answered

Chaerephon when he asked you at first, to say what this art is, and what we ought to call

Gorgias: Or rather, Gorgias, let me turn to you, and ask the same question,—what are we

to call you, and what is the art which you profess?

GORGIAS: Rhetoric, Socrates, is my art.

SOCRATES: Then I am to call you a rhetorician?

GORGIAS: Yes, Socrates, and a good one too, if you would call me that which, in

Homeric language, 'I boast myself to be.'

SOCRATES: I should wish to do so.

GORGIAS: Then pray do.

SOCRATES: And are we to say that you are able to make other men rhetoricians?

GORGIAS: Yes, that is exactly what I profess to make them, not only at Athens, but in all

places.

SOCRATES: And will you continue to ask and answer questions, Gorgias, as we are at

present doing, and reserve for another occasion the longer mode of speech which Polus

was attempting? Will you keep your promise, and answer shortly the questions which

are asked of you?

GORGIAS: Some answers, Socrates, are of necessity longer; but I will do my best to make

them as short as possible; for a part of my profession is that I can be as short as any

one.

SOCRATES: That is what is wanted, Gorgias; exhibit the shorter method now, and the

longer one at some other time.

GORGIAS: Well, I will; and you will certainly say, that you never heard a man use fewer

words.

SOCRATES: Very good then; as you profess to be a rhetorician, and a maker of

rhetoricians, let me ask you, with what is rhetoric concerned: I might ask with what is

weaving concerned, and you would reply (would you not?), with the making of

garments?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And music is concerned with the composition of melodies?

GORGIAS: It is.

SOCRATES: By Here, Gorgias, I admire the surpassing brevity of your answers.

GORGIAS: Yes, Socrates, I do think myself good at that.

SOCRATES: I am glad to hear it; answer me in like manner about rhetoric: with what is

rhetoric concerned?

GORGIAS: With discourse.

SOCRATES: What sort of discourse, Gorgias?—such discourse as would teach the sick

under what treatment they might get well?

GORGIAS: No.

SOCRATES: Then rhetoric does not treat of all kinds of discourse?

GORGIAS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: And yet rhetoric makes men able to speak?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And to understand that about which they speak?

GORGIAS: Of course.

SOCRATES: But does not the art of medicine, which we were just now mentioning, also

make men able to understand and speak about the sick?

GORGIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then medicine also treats of discourse?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Of discourse concerning diseases?

GORGIAS: Just so.

SOCRATES: And does not gymnastic also treat of discourse concerning the good or evil

condition of the body?

GORGIAS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And the same, Gorgias, is true of the other arts:—all of them treat of

discourse concerning the subjects with which they severally have to do.

GORGIAS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: Then why, if you call rhetoric the art which treats of discourse, and all the

other arts treat of discourse, do you not call them arts of rhetoric?

GORGIAS: Because, Socrates, the knowledge of the other arts has only to do with some

sort of external action, as of the hand; but there is no such action of the hand in rhetoric

which works and takes effect only through the medium of discourse. And therefore I am

justified in saying that rhetoric treats of discourse.

SOCRATES: I am not sure whether I entirely understand you, but I dare say I shall soon

know better; please to answer me a question:—you would allow that there are arts?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: As to the arts generally, they are for the most part concerned with doing,

and require little or no speaking; in painting, and statuary, and many other arts, the

work may proceed in silence; and of such arts I suppose you would say that they do not

come within the province of rhetoric.

GORGIAS: You perfectly conceive my meaning, Socrates.

SOCRATES: But there are other arts which work wholly through the medium of

language, and require either no action or very little, as, for example, the arts of

arithmetic, of calculation, of geometry, and of playing draughts; in some of these speech

is pretty nearly co-extensive with action, but in most of them the verbal element is

greater—they depend wholly on words for their efficacy and power: and I take your

meaning to be that rhetoric is an art of this latter sort?

GORGIAS: Exactly.

SOCRATES: And yet I do not believe that you really mean to call any of these arts

rhetoric; although the precise expression which you used was, that rhetoric is an art

which works and takes effect only through the medium of discourse; and an adversary

who wished to be captious might say, 'And so, Gorgias, you call arithmetic rhetoric.' But

I do not think that you really call arithmetic rhetoric any more than geometry would be

so called by you.

GORGIAS: You are quite right, Socrates, in your apprehension of my meaning.

SOCRATES: Well, then, let me now have the rest of my answer:—seeing that rhetoric is

one of those arts which works mainly by the use of words, and there are other arts

which also use words, tell me what is that quality in words with which rhetoric is

concerned:—Suppose that a person asks me about some of the arts which I was

mentioning just now; he might say, 'Socrates, what is arithmetic?' and I should reply to

him, as you replied to me, that arithmetic is one of those arts which take effect through

words. And then he would proceed to ask: 'Words about what?' and I should reply,

Words about odd and even numbers, and how many there are of each. And if he asked

again: 'What is the art of calculation?' I should say, That also is one of the arts which is

concerned wholly with words. And if he further said, 'Concerned with what?' I should

say, like the clerks in the assembly, 'as aforesaid' of arithmetic, but with a difference, the

difference being that the art of calculation considers not only the quantities of odd and

even numbers, but also their numerical relations to themselves and to one another. And

suppose, again, I were to say that astronomy is only words—he would ask, 'Words about

what, Socrates?' and I should answer, that astronomy tells us about the motions of the

stars and sun and moon, and their relative swiftness.

GORGIAS: You would be quite right, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And now let us have from you, Gorgias, the truth about rhetoric: which you

would admit (would you not?) to be one of those arts which act always and fulfil all their

ends through the medium of words?

GORGIAS: True.

SOCRATES: Words which do what? I should ask. To what class of things do the words

which rhetoric uses relate?

GORGIAS: To the greatest, Socrates, and the best of human things.

SOCRATES: That again, Gorgias is ambiguous; I am still in the dark: for which are the

greatest and best of human things? I dare say that you have heard men singing at feasts

the old drinking song, in which the singers enumerate the goods of life, first health,

beauty next, thirdly, as the writer of the song says, wealth honestly obtained.

GORGIAS: Yes, I know the song; but what is your drift?

SOCRATES: I mean to say, that the producers of those things which the author of the

song praises, that is to say, the physician, the trainer, the money-maker, will at once

come to you, and first the physician will say: 'O Socrates, Gorgias is deceiving you, for

my art is concerned with the greatest good of men and not his.' And when I ask, Who

are you? he will reply, 'I am a physician.' What do you mean? I shall say. Do you mean

that your art produces the greatest good? 'Certainly,' he will answer, 'for is not health

the greatest good? What greater good can men have, Socrates?' And after him the

trainer will come and say, 'I too, Socrates, shall be greatly surprised if Gorgias can show

more good of his art than I can show of mine.' To him again I shall say, Who are you,

honest friend, and what is your business? 'I am a trainer,' he will reply, 'and my business

is to make men beautiful and strong in body.' When I have done with the trainer, there

arrives the money-maker, and he, as I expect, will utterly despise them all. 'Consider

Socrates,' he will say, 'whether Gorgias or any one else can produce any greater good

than wealth.' Well, you and I say to him, and are you a creator of wealth? 'Yes,' he

replies. And who are you? 'A money-maker.' And do you consider wealth to be the

greatest good of man? 'Of course,' will be his reply. And we shall rejoin: Yes; but our

friend Gorgias contends that his art produces a greater good than yours. And then he

will be sure to go on and ask, 'What good? Let Gorgias answer.' Now I want you,

Gorgias, to imagine that this question is asked of you by them and by me; What is that

which, as you say, is the greatest good of man, and of which you are the creator?

Answer us.

GORGIAS: That good, Socrates, which is truly the greatest, being that which gives to

men freedom in their own persons, and to individuals the power of ruling over others in

their several states.

SOCRATES: And what would you consider this to be?

GORGIAS: What is there greater than the word which persuades the judges in the courts,

or the senators in the council, or the citizens in the assembly, or at any other political

meeting?—if you have the power of uttering this word, you will have the physician your

slave, and the trainer your slave, and the money-maker of whom you talk will be found

to gather treasures, not for himself, but for you who are able to speak and to persuade

the multitude.

SOCRATES: Now I think, Gorgias, that you have very accurately explained what you

conceive to be the art of rhetoric; and you mean to say, if I am not mistaken, that

rhetoric is the artificer of persuasion, having this and no other business, and that this is

her crown and end. Do you know any other effect of rhetoric over and above that of

producing persuasion?

GORGIAS: No: the definition seems to me very fair, Socrates; for persuasion is the chief

end of rhetoric.

SOCRATES: Then hear me, Gorgias, for I am quite sure that if there ever was a man who

entered on the discussion of a matter from a pure love of knowing the truth, I am such a

one, and I should say the same of you.

GORGIAS: What is coming, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I will tell you: I am very well aware that I do not know what, according to

you, is the exact nature, or what are the topics of that persuasion of which you speak,

and which is given by rhetoric; although I have a suspicion about both the one and the

other. And I am going to ask— what is this power of persuasion which is given by

rhetoric, and about what? But why, if I have a suspicion, do I ask instead of telling you?

Not for your sake, but in order that the argument may proceed in such a manner as is

most likely to set forth the truth. And I would have you observe, that I am right in asking

this further question: If I asked, 'What sort of a painter is Zeuxis?' and you said, 'The

painter of figures,' should I not be right in asking, 'What kind of figures, and where do

you find them?'

GORGIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And the reason for asking this second question would be, that there are

other painters besides, who paint many other figures?

GORGIAS: True.

SOCRATES: But if there had been no one but Zeuxis who painted them, then you would

have answered very well?

GORGIAS: Quite so.

SOCRATES: Now I want to know about rhetoric in the same way;—is rhetoric the only art

which brings persuasion, or do other arts have the same effect? I mean to say—Does he

who teaches anything persuade men of that which he teaches or not?

GORGIAS: He persuades, Socrates,—there can be no mistake about that.

SOCRATES: Again, if we take the arts of which we were just now speaking:— do not

arithmetic and the arithmeticians teach us the properties of number?

GORGIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And therefore persuade us of them?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then arithmetic as well as rhetoric is an artificer of persuasion?

GORGIAS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: And if any one asks us what sort of persuasion, and about what, —we shall

answer, persuasion which teaches the quantity of odd and even; and we shall be able to

show that all the other arts of which we were just now speaking are artificers of

persuasion, and of what sort, and about what.

GORGIAS: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then rhetoric is not the only artificer of persuasion?

GORGIAS: True.

SOCRATES: Seeing, then, that not only rhetoric works by persuasion, but that other arts

do the same, as in the case of the painter, a question has arisen which is a very fair one:

Of what persuasion is rhetoric the artificer, and about what?—is not that a fair way of

putting the question?

GORGIAS: I think so.

SOCRATES: Then, if you approve the question, Gorgias, what is the answer?

GORGIAS: I answer, Socrates, that rhetoric is the art of persuasion in courts of law and

other assemblies, as I was just now saying, and about the just and unjust.

SOCRATES: And that, Gorgias, was what I was suspecting to be your notion; yet I would

not have you wonder if by-and-by I am found repeating a seemingly plain question; for I

ask not in order to confute you, but as I was saying that the argument may proceed

consecutively, and that we may not get the habit of anticipating and suspecting the

meaning of one another's words; I would have you develope your own views in your

own way, whatever may be your hypothesis.

GORGIAS: I think that you are quite right, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then let me raise another question; there is such a thing as 'having learned'?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And there is also 'having believed'?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And is the 'having learned' the same as 'having believed,' and are learning

and belief the same things?

GORGIAS: In my judgment, Socrates, they are not the same.

SOCRATES: And your judgment is right, as you may ascertain in this way:— If a person

were to say to you, 'Is there, Gorgias, a false belief as well as a true?'—you would reply,

if I am not mistaken, that there is.

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Well, but is there a false knowledge as well as a true?

GORGIAS: No.

SOCRATES: No, indeed; and this again proves that knowledge and belief differ.

GORGIAS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And yet those who have learned as well as those who have believed are

persuaded?

GORGIAS: Just so.

SOCRATES: Shall we then assume two sorts of persuasion,—one which is the source of

belief without knowledge, as the other is of knowledge?

GORGIAS: By all means.

SOCRATES: And which sort of persuasion does rhetoric create in courts of law and other

assemblies about the just and unjust, the sort of persuasion which gives belief without

knowledge, or that which gives knowledge?

GORGIAS: Clearly, Socrates, that which only gives belief.

SOCRATES: Then rhetoric, as would appear, is the artificer of a persuasion which creates

belief about the just and unjust, but gives no instruction about them?

GORGIAS: True.

SOCRATES: And the rhetorician does not instruct the courts of law or other assemblies

about things just and unjust, but he creates belief about them; for no one can be

supposed to instruct such a vast multitude about such high matters in a short time?

GORGIAS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Come, then, and let us see what we really mean about rhetoric; for I do not

know what my own meaning is as yet. When the assembly meets to elect a physician or

a shipwright or any other craftsman, will the rhetorician be taken into counsel? Surely

not. For at every election he ought to be chosen who is most skilled; and, again, when

walls have to be built or harbours or docks to be constructed, not the rhetorician but the

master workman will advise; or when generals have to be chosen and an order of battle

arranged, or a position taken, then the military will advise and not the rhetoricians: what

do you say, Gorgias? Since you profess to be a rhetorician and a maker of rhetoricians, I

cannot do better than learn the nature of your art from you. And here let me assure you

that I have your interest in view as well as my own. For likely enough some one or other

of the young men present might desire to become your pupil, and in fact I see some,

and a good many too, who have this wish, but they would be too modest to question

you. And therefore when you are interrogated by me, I would have you imagine that you

are interrogated by them. 'What is the use of coming to you, Gorgias?' they will say—

'about what will you teach us to advise the state?—about the just and unjust only, or

about those other things also which Socrates has just mentioned?' How will you answer

them?

GORGIAS: I like your way of leading us on, Socrates, and I will endeavour to reveal to

you the whole nature of rhetoric. You must have heard, I think, that the docks and the

walls of the Athenians and the plan of the harbour were devised in accordance with the

counsels, partly of Themistocles, and partly of Pericles, and not at the suggestion of the

builders.

SOCRATES: Such is the tradition, Gorgias, about Themistocles; and I myself heard the

speech of Pericles when he advised us about the middle wall.

GORGIAS: And you will observe, Socrates, that when a decision has to be given in such

matters the rhetoricians are the advisers; they are the men who win their point.

SOCRATES: I had that in my admiring mind, Gorgias, when I asked what is the nature of

rhetoric, which always appears to me, when I look at the matter in this way, to be a

marvel of greatness.

GORGIAS: A marvel, indeed, Socrates, if you only knew how rhetoric comprehends and

holds under her sway all the inferior arts. Let me offer you a striking example of this. On

several occasions I have been with my brother Herodicus or some other physician to see

one of his patients, who would not allow the physician to give him medicine, or apply

the knife or hot iron to him; and I have persuaded him to do for me what he would not

do for the physician just by the use of rhetoric. And I say that if a rhetorician and a

physician were to go to any city, and had there to argue in the Ecclesia or any other

assembly as to which of them should be elected state-physician, the physician would

have no chance; but he who could speak would be chosen if he wished; and in a contest

with a man of any other profession the rhetorician more than any one would have the

power of getting himself chosen, for he can speak more persuasively to the multitude

than any of them, and on any subject. Such is the nature and power of the art of

rhetoric! And yet, Socrates, rhetoric should be used like any other competitive art, not

against everybody,—the rhetorician ought not to abuse his strength any more than a

pugilist or pancratiast or other master of fence;—because he has powers which are more

than a match either for friend or enemy, he ought not therefore to strike, stab, or slay

his friends. Suppose a man to have been trained in the palestra and to be a skilful

boxer,—he in the fulness of his strength goes and strikes his father or mother or one of

his familiars or friends; but that is no reason why the trainers or fencing-masters should

be held in detestation or banished from the city;—surely not. For they taught their art

for a good purpose, to be used against enemies and evil-doers, in self-defence not in

aggression, and others have perverted their instructions, and turned to a bad use their

own strength and skill. But not on this account are the teachers bad, neither is the art in

fault, or bad in itself; I should rather say that those who make a bad use of the art are to

blame. And the same argument holds good of rhetoric; for the rhetorician can speak

against all men and upon any subject,—in short, he can persuade the multitude better

than any other man of anything which he pleases, but he should not therefore seek to

defraud the physician or any other artist of his reputation merely because he has the

power; he ought to use rhetoric fairly, as he would also use his athletic powers. And if

after having become a rhetorician he makes a bad use of his strength and skill, his

instructor surely ought not on that account to be held in detestation or banished. For he

was intended by his teacher to make a good use of his instructions, but he abuses them.

And therefore he is the person who ought to be held in detestation, banished, and put

to death, and not his instructor.

SOCRATES: You, Gorgias, like myself, have had great experience of disputations, and you

must have observed, I think, that they do not always terminate in mutual edification, or

in the definition by either party of the subjects which they are discussing; but

disagreements are apt to arise —somebody says that another has not spoken truly or

clearly; and then they get into a passion and begin to quarrel, both parties conceiving

that their opponents are arguing from personal feeling only and jealousy of themselves,

not from any interest in the question at issue. And sometimes they will go on abusing

one another until the company at last are quite vexed at themselves for ever listening to

such fellows. Why do I say this? Why, because I cannot help feeling that you are now

saying what is not quite consistent or accordant with what you were saying at first about

rhetoric. And I am afraid to point this out to you, lest you should think that I have some

animosity against you, and that I speak, not for the sake of discovering the truth, but

from jealousy of you. Now if you are one of my sort, I should like to cross-examine you,

but if not I will let you alone. And what is my sort? you will ask. I am one of those who

are very willing to be refuted if I say anything which is not true, and very willing to refute

any one else who says what is not true, and quite as ready to be refuted as to refute; for

I hold that this is the greater gain of the two, just as the gain is greater of being cured of

a very great evil than of curing another. For I imagine that there is no evil which a man

can endure so great as an erroneous opinion about the matters of which we are

speaking; and if you claim to be one of my sort, let us have the discussion out, but if you

would rather have done, no matter;—let us make an end of it.

GORGIAS: I should say, Socrates, that I am quite the man whom you indicate; but,

perhaps, we ought to consider the audience, for, before you came, I had already given a

long exhibition, and if we proceed the argument may run on to a great length. And

therefore I think that we should consider whether we may not be detaining some part of

the company when they are wanting to do something else.

CHAEREPHON: You hear the audience cheering, Gorgias and Socrates, which shows their

desire to listen to you; and for myself, Heaven forbid that I should have any business on

hand which would take me away from a discussion so interesting and so ably

maintained.

CALLICLES: By the gods, Chaerephon, although I have been present at many discussions,

I doubt whether I was ever so much delighted before, and therefore if you go on

discoursing all day I shall be the better pleased.

SOCRATES: I may truly say, Callicles, that I am willing, if Gorgias is.

GORGIAS: After all this, Socrates, I should be disgraced if I refused, especially as I have

promised to answer all comers; in accordance with the wishes of the company, then, do

you begin. and ask of me any question which you like.

SOCRATES: Let me tell you then, Gorgias, what surprises me in your words; though I

dare say that you may be right, and I may have misunderstood your meaning. You say

that you can make any man, who will learn of you, a rhetorician?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Do you mean that you will teach him to gain the ears of the multitude on

any subject, and this not by instruction but by persuasion?

GORGIAS: Quite so.

SOCRATES: You were saying, in fact, that the rhetorician will have greater powers of

persuasion than the physician even in a matter of health?

GORGIAS: Yes, with the multitude,—that is.

SOCRATES: You mean to say, with the ignorant; for with those who know he cannot be

supposed to have greater powers of persuasion.

GORGIAS: Very true.

SOCRATES: But if he is to have more power of persuasion than the physician, he will

have greater power than he who knows?

GORGIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Although he is not a physician:—is he?

GORGIAS: No.

SOCRATES: And he who is not a physician must, obviously, be ignorant of what the

physician knows.

GORGIAS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: Then, when the rhetorician is more persuasive than the physician, the

ignorant is more persuasive with the ignorant than he who has knowledge?—is not that

the inference?

GORGIAS: In the case supposed:—yes.

SOCRATES: And the same holds of the relation of rhetoric to all the other arts; the

rhetorician need not know the truth about things; he has only to discover some way of

persuading the ignorant that he has more knowledge than those who know?

GORGIAS: Yes, Socrates, and is not this a great comfort?—not to have learned the other

arts, but the art of rhetoric only, and yet to be in no way inferior to the professors of

them?

SOCRATES: Whether the rhetorician is or not inferior on this account is a question which

we will hereafter examine if the enquiry is likely to be of any service to us; but I would

rather begin by asking, whether he is or is not as ignorant of the just and unjust, base

and honourable, good and evil, as he is of medicine and the other arts; I mean to say,

does he really know anything of what is good and evil, base or honourable, just or

unjust in them; or has he only a way with the ignorant of persuading them that he not

knowing is to be esteemed to know more about these things than some one else who

knows? Or must the pupil know these things and come to you knowing them before he

can acquire the art of rhetoric? If he is ignorant, you who are the teacher of rhetoric will

not teach him—it is not your business; but you will make him seem to the multitude to

know them, when he does not know them; and seem to be a good man, when he is not.

Or will you be unable to teach him rhetoric at all, unless he knows the truth of these

things first? What is to be said about all this? By heavens, Gorgias, I wish that you would

reveal to me the power of rhetoric, as you were saying that you would.

GORGIAS: Well, Socrates, I suppose that if the pupil does chance not to know them, he

will have to learn of me these things as well.

SOCRATES: Say no more, for there you are right; and so he whom you make a

rhetorician must either know the nature of the just and unjust already, or he must be

taught by you.

GORGIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Well, and is not he who has learned carpentering a carpenter?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And he who has learned music a musician?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And he who has learned medicine is a physician, in like manner? He who has

learned anything whatever is that which his knowledge makes him.

GORGIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And in the same way, he who has learned what is just is just?

GORGIAS: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And he who is just may be supposed to do what is just?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And must not the just man always desire to do what is just?

GORGIAS: That is clearly the inference.

SOCRATES: Surely, then, the just man will never consent to do injustice?

GORGIAS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: And according to the argument the rhetorician must be a just man?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And will therefore never be willing to do injustice?

GORGIAS: Clearly not.

SOCRATES: But do you remember saying just now that the trainer is not to be accused

or banished if the pugilist makes a wrong use of his pugilistic art; and in like manner, if

the rhetorician makes a bad and unjust use of his rhetoric, that is not to be laid to the

charge of his teacher, who is not to be banished, but the wrong-doer himself who made

a bad use of his rhetoric—he is to be banished—was not that said?

GORGIAS: Yes, it was.

SOCRATES: But now we are affirming that the aforesaid rhetorician will never have done

injustice at all?

GORGIAS: True.

SOCRATES: And at the very outset, Gorgias, it was said that rhetoric treated of discourse,

not (like arithmetic) about odd and even, but about just and unjust? Was not this said?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: I was thinking at the time, when I heard you saying so, that rhetoric, which is

always discoursing about justice, could not possibly be an unjust thing. But when you

added, shortly afterwards, that the rhetorician might make a bad use of rhetoric I noted

with surprise the inconsistency into which you had fallen; and I said, that if you thought,

as I did, that there was a gain in being refuted, there would be an advantage in going on

with the question, but if not, I would leave off. And in the course of our investigations,

as you will see yourself, the rhetorician has been acknowledged to be incapable of

making an unjust use of rhetoric, or of willingness to do injustice. By the dog, Gorgias,

there will be a great deal of discussion, before we get at the truth of all this.

POLUS: And do even you, Socrates, seriously believe what you are now saying about

rhetoric? What! because Gorgias was ashamed to deny that the rhetorician knew the just

and the honourable and the good, and admitted that to any one who came to him

ignorant of them he could teach them, and then out of this admission there arose a

contradiction—the thing which you dearly love, and to which not he, but you, brought

the argument by your captious questions—(do you seriously believe that there is any

truth in all this?) For will any one ever acknowledge that he does not know, or cannot

teach, the nature of justice? The truth is, that there is great want of manners in bringing

the argument to such a pass.

SOCRATES: Illustrious Polus, the reason why we provide ourselves with friends and

children is, that when we get old and stumble, a younger generation may be at hand to

set us on our legs again in our words and in our actions: and now, if I and Gorgias are

stumbling, here are you who should raise us up; and I for my part engage to retract any

error into which you may think that I have fallen-upon one condition:

POLUS: What condition?

SOCRATES: That you contract, Polus, the prolixity of speech in which you indulged at

first.

POLUS: What! do you mean that I may not use as many words as I please?

SOCRATES: Only to think, my friend, that having come on a visit to Athens, which is the

most free-spoken state in Hellas, you when you got there, and you alone, should be

deprived of the power of speech—that would be hard indeed. But then consider my

case:—shall not I be very hardly used, if, when you are making a long oration, and

refusing to answer what you are asked, I am compelled to stay and listen to you, and

may not go away? I say rather, if you have a real interest in the argument, or, to repeat

my former expression, have any desire to set it on its legs, take back any statement

which you please; and in your turn ask and answer, like myself and Gorgias—refute and

be refuted: for I suppose that you would claim to know what Gorgias knows—would you

not?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And you, like him, invite any one to ask you about anything which he

pleases, and you will know how to answer him?

POLUS: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And now, which will you do, ask or answer?

POLUS: I will ask; and do you answer me, Socrates, the same question which Gorgias, as

you suppose, is unable to answer: What is rhetoric?

SOCRATES: Do you mean what sort of an art?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: To say the truth, Polus, it is not an art at all, in my opinion.

POLUS: Then what, in your opinion, is rhetoric?

SOCRATES: A thing which, as I was lately reading in a book of yours, you say that you

have made an art.

POLUS: What thing?

SOCRATES: I should say a sort of experience.

POLUS: Does rhetoric seem to you to be an experience?

SOCRATES: That is my view, but you may be of another mind.

POLUS: An experience in what?

SOCRATES: An experience in producing a sort of delight and gratification.

POLUS: And if able to gratify others, must not rhetoric be a fine thing?

SOCRATES: What are you saying, Polus? Why do you ask me whether rhetoric is a fine

thing or not, when I have not as yet told you what rhetoric is?

POLUS: Did I not hear you say that rhetoric was a sort of experience?

SOCRATES: Will you, who are so desirous to gratify others, afford a slight gratification to

me?

POLUS: I will.

SOCRATES: Will you ask me, what sort of an art is cookery?

POLUS: What sort of an art is cookery?

SOCRATES: Not an art at all, Polus.

POLUS: What then?

SOCRATES: I should say an experience.

POLUS: In what? I wish that you would explain to me.

SOCRATES: An experience in producing a sort of delight and gratification, Polus.

POLUS: Then are cookery and rhetoric the same?

SOCRATES: No, they are only different parts of the same profession.

POLUS: Of what profession?

SOCRATES: I am afraid that the truth may seem discourteous; and I hesitate to answer,

lest Gorgias should imagine that I am making fun of his own profession. For whether or

no this is that art of rhetoric which Gorgias practises I really cannot tell:—from what he

was just now saying, nothing appeared of what he thought of his art, but the rhetoric

which I mean is a part of a not very creditable whole.

GORGIAS: A part of what, Socrates? Say what you mean, and never mind me.

SOCRATES: In my opinion then, Gorgias, the whole of which rhetoric is a part is not an

art at all, but the habit of a bold and ready wit, which knows how to manage mankind:

this habit I sum up under the word 'flattery'; and it appears to me to have many other

parts, one of which is cookery, which may seem to be an art, but, as I maintain, is only an

experience or routine and not an art:—another part is rhetoric, and the art of attiring

and sophistry are two others: thus there are four branches, and four different things

answering to them. And Polus may ask, if he likes, for he has not as yet been informed,

what part of flattery is rhetoric: he did not see that I had not yet answered him when he

proceeded to ask a further question: Whether I do not think rhetoric a fine thing? But I

shall not tell him whether rhetoric is a fine thing or not, until I have first answered, 'What

is rhetoric?' For that would not be right, Polus; but I shall be happy to answer, if you will

ask me, What part of flattery is rhetoric?

POLUS: I will ask and do you answer? What part of flattery is rhetoric?

SOCRATES: Will you understand my answer? Rhetoric, according to my view, is the ghost

or counterfeit of a part of politics.

POLUS: And noble or ignoble?

SOCRATES: Ignoble, I should say, if I am compelled to answer, for I call what is bad

ignoble: though I doubt whether you understand what I was saying before.

GORGIAS: Indeed, Socrates, I cannot say that I understand myself.

SOCRATES: I do not wonder, Gorgias; for I have not as yet explained myself, and our

friend Polus, colt by name and colt by nature, is apt to run away. (This is an

untranslatable play on the name 'Polus,' which means 'a colt.')

GORGIAS: Never mind him, but explain to me what you mean by saying that rhetoric is

the counterfeit of a part of politics.

SOCRATES: I will try, then, to explain my notion of rhetoric, and if I am mistaken, my

friend Polus shall refute me. We may assume the existence of bodies and of souls?

GORGIAS: Of course.

SOCRATES: You would further admit that there is a good condition of either of them?

GORGIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Which condition may not be really good, but good only in appearance? I

mean to say, that there are many persons who appear to be in good health, and whom

only a physician or trainer will discern at first sight not to be in good health.

GORGIAS: True.

SOCRATES: And this applies not only to the body, but also to the soul: in either there

may be that which gives the appearance of health and not the reality?

GORGIAS: Yes, certainly.

SOCRATES: And now I will endeavour to explain to you more clearly what I mean: The

soul and body being two, have two arts corresponding to them: there is the art of

politics attending on the soul; and another art attending on the body, of which I know

no single name, but which may be described as having two divisions, one of them

gymnastic, and the other medicine. And in politics there is a legislative part, which

answers to gymnastic, as justice does to medicine; and the two parts run into one

another, justice having to do with the same subject as legislation, and medicine with the

same subject as gymnastic, but with a difference. Now, seeing that there are these four

arts, two attending on the body and two on the soul for their highest good; flattery

knowing, or rather guessing their natures, has distributed herself into four shams or

simulations of them; she puts on the likeness of some one or other of them, and

pretends to be that which she simulates, and having no regard for men's highest

interests, is ever making pleasure the bait of the unwary, and deceiving them into the

belief that she is of the highest value to them. Cookery simulates the disguise of

medicine, and pretends to know what food is the best for the body; and if the physician

and the cook had to enter into a competition in which children were the judges, or men

who had no more sense than children, as to which of them best understands the

goodness or badness of food, the physician would be starved to death. A flattery I deem

this to be and of an ignoble sort, Polus, for to you I am now addressing myself, because

it aims at pleasure without any thought of the best. An art I do not call it, but only an

experience, because it is unable to explain or to give a reason of the nature of its own

applications. And I do not call any irrational thing an art; but if you dispute my words, I

am prepared to argue in defence of them.

Cookery, then, I maintain to be a flattery which takes the form of medicine; and tiring, in

like manner, is a flattery which takes the form of gymnastic, and is knavish, false,

ignoble, illiberal, working deceitfully by the help of lines, and colours, and enamels, and

garments, and making men affect a spurious beauty to the neglect of the true beauty

which is given by gymnastic.

I would rather not be tedious, and therefore I will only say, after the manner of the

geometricians (for I think that by this time you will be able to follow)

as tiring : gymnastic :: cookery : medicine;

or rather,

as tiring : gymnastic :: sophistry : legislation;

and

as cookery : medicine :: rhetoric : justice.

And this, I say, is the natural difference between the rhetorician and the sophist, but by

reason of their near connection, they are apt to be jumbled up together; neither do they

know what to make of themselves, nor do other men know what to make of them. For if

the body presided over itself, and were not under the guidance of the soul, and the soul

did not discern and discriminate between cookery and medicine, but the body was

made the judge of them, and the rule of judgment was the bodily delight which was

given by them, then the word of Anaxagoras, that word with which you, friend Polus, are

so well acquainted, would prevail far and wide: 'Chaos' would come again, and cookery,

health, and medicine would mingle in an indiscriminate mass. And now I have told you

my notion of rhetoric, which is, in relation to the soul, what cookery is to the body. I may

have been inconsistent in making a long speech, when I would not allow you to

discourse at length. But I think that I may be excused, because you did not understand

me, and could make no use of my answer when I spoke shortly, and therefore I had to

enter into an explanation. And if I show an equal inability to make use of yours, I hope

that you will speak at equal length; but if I am able to understand you, let me have the

benefit of your brevity, as is only fair: And now you may do what you please with my

answer.

POLUS: What do you mean? do you think that rhetoric is flattery?

SOCRATES: Nay, I said a part of flattery; if at your age, Polus, you cannot remember,

what will you do by-and-by, when you get older?

POLUS: And are the good rhetoricians meanly regarded in states, under the idea that

they are flatterers?

SOCRATES: Is that a question or the beginning of a speech?

POLUS: I am asking a question.

SOCRATES: Then my answer is, that they are not regarded at all.

POLUS: How not regarded? Have they not very great power in states?

SOCRATES: Not if you mean to say that power is a good to the possessor.

POLUS: And that is what I do mean to say.

SOCRATES: Then, if so, I think that they have the least power of all the citizens.

POLUS: What! are they not like tyrants? They kill and despoil and exile any one whom

they please.

SOCRATES: By the dog, Polus, I cannot make out at each deliverance of yours, whether

you are giving an opinion of your own, or asking a question of me.

POLUS: I am asking a question of you.

SOCRATES: Yes, my friend, but you ask two questions at once.

POLUS: How two questions?

SOCRATES: Why, did you not say just now that the rhetoricians are like tyrants, and that

they kill and despoil or exile any one whom they please?

POLUS: I did.

SOCRATES: Well then, I say to you that here are two questions in one, and I will answer

both of them. And I tell you, Polus, that rhetoricians and tyrants have the least possible

power in states, as I was just now saying; for they do literally nothing which they will, but

only what they think best.

POLUS: And is not that a great power?

SOCRATES: Polus has already said the reverse.

POLUS: Said the reverse! nay, that is what I assert.

SOCRATES: No, by the great—what do you call him?—not you, for you say that power is

a good to him who has the power.

POLUS: I do.

SOCRATES: And would you maintain that if a fool does what he thinks best, this is a

good, and would you call this great power?

POLUS: I should not.

SOCRATES: Then you must prove that the rhetorician is not a fool, and that rhetoric is an

art and not a flattery—and so you will have refuted me; but if you leave me unrefuted,

why, the rhetoricians who do what they think best in states, and the tyrants, will have

nothing upon which to congratulate themselves, if as you say, power be indeed a good,

admitting at the same time that what is done without sense is an evil.

POLUS: Yes; I admit that.

SOCRATES: How then can the rhetoricians or the tyrants have great power in states,

unless Polus can refute Socrates, and prove to him that they do as they will?

POLUS: This fellow—

SOCRATES: I say that they do not do as they will;—now refute me.

POLUS: Why, have you not already said that they do as they think best?

SOCRATES: And I say so still.

POLUS: Then surely they do as they will?

SOCRATES: I deny it.

POLUS: But they do what they think best?

SOCRATES: Aye.

POLUS: That, Socrates, is monstrous and absurd.

SOCRATES: Good words, good Polus, as I may say in your own peculiar style; but if you

have any questions to ask of me, either prove that I am in error or give the answer

yourself.

POLUS: Very well, I am willing to answer that I may know what you mean.

SOCRATES: Do men appear to you to will that which they do, or to will that further end

for the sake of which they do a thing? when they take medicine, for example, at the

bidding of a physician, do they will the drinking of the medicine which is painful, or the

health for the sake of which they drink?

POLUS: Clearly, the health.

SOCRATES: And when men go on a voyage or engage in business, they do not will that

which they are doing at the time; for who would desire to take the risk of a voyage or

the trouble of business?—But they will, to have the wealth for the sake of which they go

on a voyage.

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And is not this universally true? If a man does something for the sake of

something else, he wills not that which he does, but that for the sake of which he does

it.

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And are not all things either good or evil, or intermediate and indifferent?

POLUS: To be sure, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Wisdom and health and wealth and the like you would call goods, and their

opposites evils?

POLUS: I should.

SOCRATES: And the things which are neither good nor evil, and which partake

sometimes of the nature of good and at other times of evil, or of neither, are such as

sitting, walking, running, sailing; or, again, wood, stones, and the like:—these are the

things which you call neither good nor evil?

POLUS: Exactly so.

SOCRATES: Are these indifferent things done for the sake of the good, or the good for

the sake of the indifferent?

POLUS: Clearly, the indifferent for the sake of the good.

SOCRATES: When we walk we walk for the sake of the good, and under the idea that it is

better to walk, and when we stand we stand equally for the sake of the good?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And when we kill a man we kill him or exile him or despoil him of his goods,

because, as we think, it will conduce to our good?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Men who do any of these things do them for the sake of the good?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And did we not admit that in doing something for the sake of something

else, we do not will those things which we do, but that other thing for the sake of which

we do them?

POLUS: Most true.

SOCRATES: Then we do not will simply to kill a man or to exile him or to despoil him of

his goods, but we will to do that which conduces to our good, and if the act is not

conducive to our good we do not will it; for we will, as you say, that which is our good,

but that which is neither good nor evil, or simply evil, we do not will. Why are you silent,

Polus? Am I not right?

POLUS: You are right.

SOCRATES: Hence we may infer, that if any one, whether he be a tyrant or a rhetorician,

kills another or exiles another or deprives him of his property, under the idea that the

act is for his own interests when really not for his own interests, he may be said to do

what seems best to him?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: But does he do what he wills if he does what is evil? Why do you not

answer?

POLUS: Well, I suppose not.

SOCRATES: Then if great power is a good as you allow, will such a one have great power

in a state?

POLUS: He will not.

SOCRATES: Then I was right in saying that a man may do what seems good to him in a

state, and not have great power, and not do what he wills?

POLUS: As though you, Socrates, would not like to have the power of doing what

seemed good to you in the state, rather than not; you would not be jealous when you

saw any one killing or despoiling or imprisoning whom he pleased, Oh, no!

SOCRATES: Justly or unjustly, do you mean?

POLUS: In either case is he not equally to be envied?

SOCRATES: Forbear, Polus!

POLUS: Why 'forbear'?

SOCRATES: Because you ought not to envy wretches who are not to be envied, but only

to pity them.

POLUS: And are those of whom I spoke wretches?

SOCRATES: Yes, certainly they are.

POLUS: And so you think that he who slays any one whom he pleases, and justly slays

him, is pitiable and wretched?

SOCRATES: No, I do not say that of him: but neither do I think that he is to be envied.

POLUS: Were you not saying just now that he is wretched?

SOCRATES: Yes, my friend, if he killed another unjustly, in which case he is also to be

pitied; and he is not to be envied if he killed him justly.

POLUS: At any rate you will allow that he who is unjustly put to death is wretched, and

to be pitied?

SOCRATES: Not so much, Polus, as he who kills him, and not so much as he who is justly

killed.

POLUS: How can that be, Socrates?

SOCRATES: That may very well be, inasmuch as doing injustice is the greatest of evils.

POLUS: But is it the greatest? Is not suffering injustice a greater evil?

SOCRATES: Certainly not.

POLUS: Then would you rather suffer than do injustice?

SOCRATES: I should not like either, but if I must choose between them, I would rather

suffer than do.

POLUS: Then you would not wish to be a tyrant?

SOCRATES: Not if you mean by tyranny what I mean.

POLUS: I mean, as I said before, the power of doing whatever seems good to you in a

state, killing, banishing, doing in all things as you like.

SOCRATES: Well then, illustrious friend, when I have said my say, do you reply to me.

Suppose that I go into a crowded Agora, and take a dagger under my arm. Polus, I say

to you, I have just acquired rare power, and become a tyrant; for if I think that any of

these men whom you see ought to be put to death, the man whom I have a mind to kill

is as good as dead; and if I am disposed to break his head or tear his garment, he will

have his head broken or his garment torn in an instant. Such is my great power in this

city. And if you do not believe me, and I show you the dagger, you would probably

reply: Socrates, in that sort of way any one may have great power—he may burn any

house which he pleases, and the docks and triremes of the Athenians, and all their other

vessels, whether public or private— but can you believe that this mere doing as you

think best is great power?

POLUS: Certainly not such doing as this.

SOCRATES: But can you tell me why you disapprove of such a power?

POLUS: I can.

SOCRATES: Why then?

POLUS: Why, because he who did as you say would be certain to be punished.

SOCRATES: And punishment is an evil?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And you would admit once more, my good sir, that great power is a benefit

to a man if his actions turn out to his advantage, and that this is the meaning of great

power; and if not, then his power is an evil and is no power. But let us look at the matter

in another way:—do we not acknowledge that the things of which we were speaking,

the infliction of death, and exile, and the deprivation of property are sometimes a good

and sometimes not a good?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: About that you and I may be supposed to agree?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Tell me, then, when do you say that they are good and when that they are

evil—what principle do you lay down?

POLUS: I would rather, Socrates, that you should answer as well as ask that question.

SOCRATES: Well, Polus, since you would rather have the answer from me, I say that they

are good when they are just, and evil when they are unjust.

POLUS: You are hard of refutation, Socrates, but might not a child refute that statement?

SOCRATES: Then I shall be very grateful to the child, and equally grateful to you if you

will refute me and deliver me from my foolishness. And I hope that refute me you will,

and not weary of doing good to a friend.

POLUS: Yes, Socrates, and I need not go far or appeal to antiquity; events which

happened only a few days ago are enough to refute you, and to prove that many men

who do wrong are happy.

SOCRATES: What events?

POLUS: You see, I presume, that Archelaus the son of Perdiccas is now the ruler of

Macedonia?

SOCRATES: At any rate I hear that he is.

POLUS: And do you think that he is happy or miserable?

SOCRATES: I cannot say, Polus, for I have never had any acquaintance with him.

POLUS: And cannot you tell at once, and without having an acquaintance with him,

whether a man is happy?

SOCRATES: Most certainly not.

POLUS: Then clearly, Socrates, you would say that you did not even know whether the

great king was a happy man?

SOCRATES: And I should speak the truth; for I do not know how he stands in the matter

of education and justice.

POLUS: What! and does all happiness consist in this?

SOCRATES: Yes, indeed, Polus, that is my doctrine; the men and women who are gentle

and good are also happy, as I maintain, and the unjust and evil are miserable.

POLUS: Then, according to your doctrine, the said Archelaus is miserable?

SOCRATES: Yes, my friend, if he is wicked.

POLUS: That he is wicked I cannot deny; for he had no title at all to the throne which he

now occupies, he being only the son of a woman who was the slave of Alcetas the

brother of Perdiccas; he himself therefore in strict right was the slave of Alcetas; and if

he had meant to do rightly he would have remained his slave, and then, according to

your doctrine, he would have been happy. But now he is unspeakably miserable, for he

has been guilty of the greatest crimes: in the first place he invited his uncle and master,

Alcetas, to come to him, under the pretence that he would restore to him the throne

which Perdiccas has usurped, and after entertaining him and his son Alexander, who was

his own cousin, and nearly of an age with him, and making them drunk, he threw them

into a waggon and carried them off by night, and slew them, and got both of them out

of the way; and when he had done all this wickedness he never discovered that he was

the most miserable of all men, and was very far from repenting: shall I tell you how he

showed his remorse? he had a younger brother, a child of seven years old, who was the

legitimate son of Perdiccas, and to him of right the kingdom belonged; Archelaus,

however, had no mind to bring him up as he ought and restore the kingdom to him;

that was not his notion of happiness; but not long afterwards he threw him into a well

and drowned him, and declared to his mother Cleopatra that he had fallen in while

running after a goose, and had been killed. And now as he is the greatest criminal of all

the Macedonians, he may be supposed to be the most miserable and not the happiest

of them, and I dare say that there are many Athenians, and you would be at the head of

them, who would rather be any other Macedonian than Archelaus!

SOCRATES: I praised you at first, Polus, for being a rhetorician rather than a reasoner.

And this, as I suppose, is the sort of argument with which you fancy that a child might

refute me, and by which I stand refuted when I say that the unjust man is not happy.

But, my good friend, where is the refutation? I cannot admit a word which you have

been saying.

POLUS: That is because you will not; for you surely must think as I do.

SOCRATES: Not so, my simple friend, but because you will refute me after the manner

which rhetoricians practise in courts of law. For there the one party think that they refute

the other when they bring forward a number of witnesses of good repute in proof of

their allegations, and their adversary has only a single one or none at all. But this kind of

proof is of no value where truth is the aim; a man may often be sworn down by a

multitude of false witnesses who have a great air of respectability. And in this argument

nearly every one, Athenian and stranger alike, would be on your side, if you should bring

witnesses in disproof of my statement;—you may, if you will, summon Nicias the son of

Niceratus, and let his brothers, who gave the row of tripods which stand in the precincts

of Dionysus, come with him; or you may summon Aristocrates, the son of Scellius, who is

the giver of that famous offering which is at Delphi; summon, if you will, the whole

house of Pericles, or any other great Athenian family whom you choose;— they will all

agree with you: I only am left alone and cannot agree, for you do not convince me;

although you produce many false witnesses against me, in the hope of depriving me of

my inheritance, which is the truth. But I consider that nothing worth speaking of will

have been effected by me unless I make you the one witness of my words; nor by you,

unless you make me the one witness of yours; no matter about the rest of the world. For

there are two ways of refutation, one which is yours and that of the world in general; but

mine is of another sort—let us compare them, and see in what they differ. For, indeed,

we are at issue about matters which to know is honourable and not to know disgraceful;

to know or not to know happiness and misery—that is the chief of them. And what

knowledge can be nobler? or what ignorance more disgraceful than this? And therefore

I will begin by asking you whether you do not think that a man who is unjust and doing

injustice can be happy, seeing that you think Archelaus unjust, and yet happy? May I

assume this to be your opinion?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: But I say that this is an impossibility—here is one point about which we are

at issue:—very good. And do you mean to say also that if he meets with retribution and

punishment he will still be happy?

POLUS: Certainly not; in that case he will be most miserable.

SOCRATES: On the other hand, if the unjust be not punished, then, according to you, he

will be happy?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: But in my opinion, Polus, the unjust or doer of unjust actions is miserable in

any case,—more miserable, however, if he be not punished and does not meet with

retribution, and less miserable if he be punished and meets with retribution at the hands

of gods and men.

POLUS: You are maintaining a strange doctrine, Socrates.

SOCRATES: I shall try to make you agree with me, O my friend, for as a friend I regard

you. Then these are the points at issue between us—are they not? I was saying that to

do is worse than to suffer injustice?

POLUS: Exactly so.

SOCRATES: And you said the opposite?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: I said also that the wicked are miserable, and you refuted me?

POLUS: By Zeus, I did.

SOCRATES: In your own opinion, Polus.

POLUS: Yes, and I rather suspect that I was in the right.

SOCRATES: You further said that the wrong-doer is happy if he be unpunished?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And I affirm that he is most miserable, and that those who are punished are

less miserable—are you going to refute this proposition also?

POLUS: A proposition which is harder of refutation than the other, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Say rather, Polus, impossible; for who can refute the truth?

POLUS: What do you mean? If a man is detected in an unjust attempt to make himself a

tyrant, and when detected is racked, mutilated, has his eyes burned out, and after

having had all sorts of great injuries inflicted on him, and having seen his wife and

children suffer the like, is at last impaled or tarred and burned alive, will he be happier

than if he escape and become a tyrant, and continue all through life doing what he likes

and holding the reins of government, the envy and admiration both of citizens and

strangers? Is that the paradox which, as you say, cannot be refuted?

SOCRATES: There again, noble Polus, you are raising hobgoblins instead of refuting me;

just now you were calling witnesses against me. But please to refresh my memory a

little; did you say—'in an unjust attempt to make himself a tyrant'?

POLUS: Yes, I did.

SOCRATES: Then I say that neither of them will be happier than the other, —neither he

who unjustly acquires a tyranny, nor he who suffers in the attempt, for of two miserables

one cannot be the happier, but that he who escapes and becomes a tyrant is the more

miserable of the two. Do you laugh, Polus? Well, this is a new kind of refutation,—when

any one says anything, instead of refuting him to laugh at him.

POLUS: But do you not think, Socrates, that you have been sufficiently refuted, when

you say that which no human being will allow? Ask the company.

SOCRATES: O Polus, I am not a public man, and only last year, when my tribe were

serving as Prytanes, and it became my duty as their president to take the votes, there

was a laugh at me, because I was unable to take them. And as I failed then, you must

not ask me to count the suffrages of the company now; but if, as I was saying, you have

no better argument than numbers, let me have a turn, and do you make trial of the sort

of proof which, as I think, is required; for I shall produce one witness only of the truth of

my words, and he is the person with whom I am arguing; his suffrage I know how to

take; but with the many I have nothing to do, and do not even address myself to them.

May I ask then whether you will answer in turn and have your words put to the proof?

For I certainly think that I and you and every man do really believe, that to do is a

greater evil than to suffer injustice: and not to be punished than to be punished.

POLUS: And I should say neither I, nor any man: would you yourself, for example, suffer

rather than do injustice?

SOCRATES: Yes, and you, too; I or any man would.

POLUS: Quite the reverse; neither you, nor I, nor any man.

SOCRATES: But will you answer?

POLUS: To be sure, I will; for I am curious to hear what you can have to say.

SOCRATES: Tell me, then, and you will know, and let us suppose that I am beginning at

the beginning: which of the two, Polus, in your opinion, is the worst?—to do injustice or

to suffer?

POLUS: I should say that suffering was worst.

SOCRATES: And which is the greater disgrace?—Answer.

POLUS: To do.

SOCRATES: And the greater disgrace is the greater evil?

POLUS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: I understand you to say, if I am not mistaken, that the honourable is not the

same as the good, or the disgraceful as the evil?

POLUS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Let me ask a question of you: When you speak of beautiful things, such as

bodies, colours, figures, sounds, institutions, do you not call them beautiful in reference

to some standard: bodies, for example, are beautiful in proportion as they are useful, or

as the sight of them gives pleasure to the spectators; can you give any other account of

personal beauty?

POLUS: I cannot.

SOCRATES: And you would say of figures or colours generally that they were beautiful,

either by reason of the pleasure which they give, or of their use, or of both?

POLUS: Yes, I should.

SOCRATES: And you would call sounds and music beautiful for the same reason?

POLUS: I should.

SOCRATES: Laws and institutions also have no beauty in them except in so far as they

are useful or pleasant or both?

POLUS: I think not.

SOCRATES: And may not the same be said of the beauty of knowledge?

POLUS: To be sure, Socrates; and I very much approve of your measuring beauty by the

standard of pleasure and utility.

SOCRATES: And deformity or disgrace may be equally measured by the opposite

standard of pain and evil?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then when of two beautiful things one exceeds in beauty, the measure of

the excess is to be taken in one or both of these; that is to say, in pleasure or utility or

both?

POLUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And of two deformed things, that which exceeds in deformity or disgrace,

exceeds either in pain or evil—must it not be so?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: But then again, what was the observation which you just now made, about

doing and suffering wrong? Did you not say, that suffering wrong was more evil, and

doing wrong more disgraceful?

POLUS: I did.

SOCRATES: Then, if doing wrong is more disgraceful than suffering, the more disgraceful

must be more painful and must exceed in pain or in evil or both: does not that also

follow?

POLUS: Of course.

SOCRATES: First, then, let us consider whether the doing of injustice exceeds the

suffering in the consequent pain: Do the injurers suffer more than the injured?

POLUS: No, Socrates; certainly not.

SOCRATES: Then they do not exceed in pain?

POLUS: No.

SOCRATES: But if not in pain, then not in both?

POLUS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Then they can only exceed in the other?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: That is to say, in evil?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: Then doing injustice will have an excess of evil, and will therefore be a

greater evil than suffering injustice?

POLUS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: But have not you and the world already agreed that to do injustice is more

disgraceful than to suffer?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And that is now discovered to be more evil?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And would you prefer a greater evil or a greater dishonour to a less one?

Answer, Polus, and fear not; for you will come to no harm if you nobly resign yourself

into the healing hand of the argument as to a physician without shrinking, and either

say 'Yes' or 'No' to me.

POLUS: I should say 'No.'

SOCRATES: Would any other man prefer a greater to a less evil?

POLUS: No, not according to this way of putting the case, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then I said truly, Polus, that neither you, nor I, nor any man, would rather do

than suffer injustice; for to do injustice is the greater evil of the two.

POLUS: That is the conclusion.

SOCRATES: You see, Polus, when you compare the two kinds of refutations, how unlike

they are. All men, with the exception of myself, are of your way of thinking; but your

single assent and witness are enough for me,—I have no need of any other, I take your

suffrage, and am regardless of the rest. Enough of this, and now let us proceed to the

next question; which is, Whether the greatest of evils to a guilty man is to suffer

punishment, as you supposed, or whether to escape punishment is not a greater evil, as

I supposed. Consider:—You would say that to suffer punishment is another name for

being justly corrected when you do wrong?

POLUS: I should.

SOCRATES: And would you not allow that all just things are honourable in so far as they

are just? Please to reflect, and tell me your opinion.

POLUS: Yes, Socrates, I think that they are.

SOCRATES: Consider again:—Where there is an agent, must there not also be a patient?

POLUS: I should say so.

SOCRATES: And will not the patient suffer that which the agent does, and will not the

suffering have the quality of the action? I mean, for example, that if a man strikes, there

must be something which is stricken?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if the striker strikes violently or quickly, that which is struck will he

struck violently or quickly?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And the suffering to him who is stricken is of the same nature as the act of

him who strikes?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if a man burns, there is something which is burned?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And if he burns in excess or so as to cause pain, the thing burned will be

burned in the same way?

POLUS: Truly.

SOCRATES: And if he cuts, the same argument holds—there will be something cut?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if the cutting be great or deep or such as will cause pain, the cut will be

of the same nature?

POLUS: That is evident.

SOCRATES: Then you would agree generally to the universal proposition which I was just

now asserting: that the affection of the patient answers to the affection of the agent?

POLUS: I agree.

SOCRATES: Then, as this is admitted, let me ask whether being punished is suffering or

acting?

POLUS: Suffering, Socrates; there can be no doubt of that.

SOCRATES: And suffering implies an agent?

POLUS: Certainly, Socrates; and he is the punisher.

SOCRATES: And he who punishes rightly, punishes justly?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And therefore he acts justly?

POLUS: Justly.

SOCRATES: Then he who is punished and suffers retribution, suffers justly?

POLUS: That is evident.

SOCRATES: And that which is just has been admitted to be honourable?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then the punisher does what is honourable, and the punished suffers what

is honourable?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And if what is honourable, then what is good, for the honourable is either

pleasant or useful?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then he who is punished suffers what is good?

POLUS: That is true.

SOCRATES: Then he is benefited?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Do I understand you to mean what I mean by the term 'benefited'? I mean,

that if he be justly punished his soul is improved.

POLUS: Surely.

SOCRATES: Then he who is punished is delivered from the evil of his soul?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And is he not then delivered from the greatest evil? Look at the matter in

this way:—In respect of a man's estate, do you see any greater evil than poverty?

POLUS: There is no greater evil.

SOCRATES: Again, in a man's bodily frame, you would say that the evil is weakness and

disease and deformity?

POLUS: I should.

SOCRATES: And do you not imagine that the soul likewise has some evil of her own?

POLUS: Of course.

SOCRATES: And this you would call injustice and ignorance and cowardice, and the like?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: So then, in mind, body, and estate, which are three, you have pointed out

three corresponding evils—injustice, disease, poverty?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And which of the evils is the most disgraceful?—Is not the most disgraceful

of them injustice, and in general the evil of the soul?

POLUS: By far the most.

SOCRATES: And if the most disgraceful, then also the worst?

POLUS: What do you mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I mean to say, that is most disgraceful has been already admitted to be most

painful or hurtful, or both.

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And now injustice and all evil in the soul has been admitted by us to be

most disgraceful?

POLUS: It has been admitted.

SOCRATES: And most disgraceful either because most painful and causing excessive

pain, or most hurtful, or both?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And therefore to be unjust and intemperate, and cowardly and ignorant, is

more painful than to be poor and sick?

POLUS: Nay, Socrates; the painfulness does not appear to me to follow from your

premises.

SOCRATES: Then, if, as you would argue, not more painful, the evil of the soul is of all

evils the most disgraceful; and the excess of disgrace must be caused by some

preternatural greatness, or extraordinary hurtfulness of the evil.

POLUS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: And that which exceeds most in hurtfulness will be the greatest of evils?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then injustice and intemperance, and in general the depravity of the soul,

are the greatest of evils?

POLUS: That is evident.

SOCRATES: Now, what art is there which delivers us from poverty? Does not the art of

making money?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And what art frees us from disease? Does not the art of medicine?

POLUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And what from vice and injustice? If you are not able to answer at once, ask

yourself whither we go with the sick, and to whom we take them.

POLUS: To the physicians, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And to whom do we go with the unjust and intemperate?

POLUS: To the judges, you mean.

SOCRATES: —Who are to punish them?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And do not those who rightly punish others, punish them in accordance with

a certain rule of justice?

POLUS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: Then the art of money-making frees a man from poverty; medicine from

disease; and justice from intemperance and injustice?

POLUS: That is evident.

SOCRATES: Which, then, is the best of these three?

POLUS: Will you enumerate them?

SOCRATES: Money-making, medicine, and justice.

POLUS: Justice, Socrates, far excels the two others.

SOCRATES: And justice, if the best, gives the greatest pleasure or advantage or both?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: But is the being healed a pleasant thing, and are those who are being healed

pleased?

POLUS: I think not.

SOCRATES: A useful thing, then?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Yes, because the patient is delivered from a great evil; and this is the

advantage of enduring the pain—that you get well?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And would he be the happier man in his bodily condition, who is healed, or

who never was out of health?

POLUS: Clearly he who was never out of health.

SOCRATES: Yes; for happiness surely does not consist in being delivered from evils, but

in never having had them.

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And suppose the case of two persons who have some evil in their bodies,

and that one of them is healed and delivered from evil, and another is not healed, but

retains the evil—which of them is the most miserable?

POLUS: Clearly he who is not healed.

SOCRATES: And was not punishment said by us to be a deliverance from the greatest of

evils, which is vice?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And justice punishes us, and makes us more just, and is the medicine of our

vice?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: He, then, has the first place in the scale of happiness who has never had vice

in his soul; for this has been shown to be the greatest of evils.

POLUS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: And he has the second place, who is delivered from vice?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: That is to say, he who receives admonition and rebuke and punishment?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then he lives worst, who, having been unjust, has no deliverance from

injustice?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: That is, he lives worst who commits the greatest crimes, and who, being the

most unjust of men, succeeds in escaping rebuke or correction or punishment; and this,

as you say, has been accomplished by Archelaus and other tyrants and rhetoricians and

potentates? (Compare Republic.)

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: May not their way of proceeding, my friend, be compared to the conduct of

a person who is afflicted with the worst of diseases and yet contrives not to pay the

penalty to the physician for his sins against his constitution, and will not be cured,

because, like a child, he is afraid of the pain of being burned or cut:—Is not that a

parallel case?

POLUS: Yes, truly.

SOCRATES: He would seem as if he did not know the nature of health and bodily vigour;

and if we are right, Polus, in our previous conclusions, they are in a like case who strive

to evade justice, which they see to be painful, but are blind to the advantage which

ensues from it, not knowing how far more miserable a companion a diseased soul is

than a diseased body; a soul, I say, which is corrupt and unrighteous and unholy. And

hence they do all that they can to avoid punishment and to avoid being released from

the greatest of evils; they provide themselves with money and friends, and cultivate to

the utmost their powers of persuasion. But if we, Polus, are right, do you see what

follows, or shall we draw out the consequences in form?

POLUS: If you please.

SOCRATES: Is it not a fact that injustice, and the doing of injustice, is the greatest of

evils?

POLUS: That is quite clear.

SOCRATES: And further, that to suffer punishment is the way to be released from this

evil?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And not to suffer, is to perpetuate the evil?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: To do wrong, then, is second only in the scale of evils; but to do wrong and

not to be punished, is first and greatest of all?

POLUS: That is true.

SOCRATES: Well, and was not this the point in dispute, my friend? You deemed

Archelaus happy, because he was a very great criminal and unpunished: I, on the other

hand, maintained that he or any other who like him has done wrong and has not been

punished, is, and ought to be, the most miserable of all men; and that the doer of

injustice is more miserable than the sufferer; and he who escapes punishment, more

miserable than he who suffers.—Was not that what I said?

POLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And it has been proved to be true?

POLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Well, Polus, but if this is true, where is the great use of rhetoric? If we admit

what has been just now said, every man ought in every way to guard himself against

doing wrong, for he will thereby suffer great evil?

POLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And if he, or any one about whom he cares, does wrong, he ought of his

own accord to go where he will be immediately punished; he will run to the judge, as he

would to the physician, in order that the disease of injustice may not be rendered

chronic and become the incurable cancer of the soul; must we not allow this

consequence, Polus, if our former admissions are to stand:—is any other inference

consistent with them?

POLUS: To that, Socrates, there can be but one answer.

SOCRATES: Then rhetoric is of no use to us, Polus, in helping a man to excuse his own

injustice, that of his parents or friends, or children or country; but may be of use to any

one who holds that instead of excusing he ought to accuse—himself above all, and in

the next degree his family or any of his friends who may be doing wrong; he should

bring to light the iniquity and not conceal it, that so the wrong-doer may suffer and be

made whole; and he should even force himself and others not to shrink, but with closed

eyes like brave men to let the physician operate with knife or searing iron, not regarding

the pain, in the hope of attaining the good and the honourable; let him who has done

things worthy of stripes, allow himself to be scourged, if of bonds, to be bound, if of a

fine, to be fined, if of exile, to be exiled, if of death, to die, himself being the first to

accuse himself and his own relations, and using rhetoric to this end, that his and their

unjust actions may be made manifest, and that they themselves may be delivered from

injustice, which is the greatest evil. Then, Polus, rhetoric would indeed be useful. Do you

say 'Yes' or 'No' to that?

POLUS: To me, Socrates, what you are saying appears very strange, though probably in

agreement with your premises.

SOCRATES: Is not this the conclusion, if the premises are not disproven?

POLUS: Yes; it certainly is.

SOCRATES: And from the opposite point of view, if indeed it be our duty to harm

another, whether an enemy or not—I except the case of self-defence— then I have to be

upon my guard—but if my enemy injures a third person, then in every sort of way, by

word as well as deed, I should try to prevent his being punished, or appearing before

the judge; and if he appears, I should contrive that he should escape, and not suffer

punishment: if he has stolen a sum of money, let him keep what he has stolen and

spend it on him and his, regardless of religion and justice; and if he have done things

worthy of death, let him not die, but rather be immortal in his wickedness; or, if this is

not possible, let him at any rate be allowed to live as long as he can. For such purposes,

Polus, rhetoric may be useful, but is of small if of any use to him who is not intending to

commit injustice; at least, there was no such use discovered by us in the previous

discussion.

CALLICLES: Tell me, Chaerephon, is Socrates in earnest, or is he joking?

CHAEREPHON: I should say, Callicles, that he is in most profound earnest; but you may

well ask him.

CALLICLES: By the gods, and I will. Tell me, Socrates, are you in earnest, or only in jest?

For if you are in earnest, and what you say is true, is not the whole of human life turned

upside down; and are we not doing, as would appear, in everything the opposite of

what we ought to be doing?

SOCRATES: O Callicles, if there were not some community of feelings among mankind,

however varying in different persons—I mean to say, if every man's feelings were

peculiar to himself and were not shared by the rest of his species—I do not see how we

could ever communicate our impressions to one another. I make this remark because I

perceive that you and I have a common feeling. For we are lovers both, and both of us

have two loves apiece:—I am the lover of Alcibiades, the son of Cleinias, and of

philosophy; and you of the Athenian Demus, and of Demus the son of Pyrilampes. Now,

I observe that you, with all your cleverness, do not venture to contradict your favourite

in any word or opinion of his; but as he changes you change, backwards and forwards.

When the Athenian Demus denies anything that you are saying in the assembly, you go

over to his opinion; and you do the same with Demus, the fair young son of Pyrilampes.

For you have not the power to resist the words and ideas of your loves; and if a person

were to express surprise at the strangeness of what you say from time to time when

under their influence, you would probably reply to him, if you were honest, that you

cannot help saying what your loves say unless they are prevented; and that you can only

be silent when they are. Now you must understand that my words are an echo too, and

therefore you need not wonder at me; but if you want to silence me, silence philosophy,

who is my love, for she is always telling me what I am now telling you, my friend; neither

is she capricious like my other love, for the son of Cleinias says one thing to-day and

another thing to-morrow, but philosophy is always true. She is the teacher at whose

words you are now wondering, and you have heard her yourself. Her you must refute,

and either show, as I was saying, that to do injustice and to escape punishment is not

the worst of all evils; or, if you leave her word unrefuted, by the dog the god of Egypt, I

declare, O Callicles, that Callicles will never be at one with himself, but that his whole life

will be a discord. And yet, my friend, I would rather that my lyre should be

inharmonious, and that there should be no music in the chorus which I provided; aye, or

that the whole world should be at odds with me, and oppose me, rather than that I

myself should be at odds with myself, and contradict myself.

CALLICLES: O Socrates, you are a regular declaimer, and seem to be running riot in the

argument. And now you are declaiming in this way because Polus has fallen into the

same error himself of which he accused Gorgias:—for he said that when Gorgias was

asked by you, whether, if some one came to him who wanted to learn rhetoric, and did

not know justice, he would teach him justice, Gorgias in his modesty replied that he

would, because he thought that mankind in general would be displeased if he answered

'No'; and then in consequence of this admission, Gorgias was compelled to contradict

himself, that being just the sort of thing in which you delight. Whereupon Polus laughed

at you deservedly, as I think; but now he has himself fallen into the same trap. I cannot

say very much for his wit when he conceded to you that to do is more dishonourable

than to suffer injustice, for this was the admission which led to his being entangled by

you; and because he was too modest to say what he thought, he had his mouth

stopped. For the truth is, Socrates, that you, who pretend to be engaged in the pursuit

of truth, are appealing now to the popular and vulgar notions of right, which are not

natural, but only conventional. Convention and nature are generally at variance with one

another: and hence, if a person is too modest to say what he thinks, he is compelled to

contradict himself; and you, in your ingenuity perceiving the advantage to be thereby

gained, slyly ask of him who is arguing conventionally a question which is to be

determined by the rule of nature; and if he is talking of the rule of nature, you slip away

to custom: as, for instance, you did in this very discussion about doing and suffering

injustice. When Polus was speaking of the conventionally dishonourable, you assailed

him from the point of view of nature; for by the rule of nature, to suffer injustice is the

greater disgrace because the greater evil; but conventionally, to do evil is the more

disgraceful. For the suffering of injustice is not the part of a man, but of a slave, who

indeed had better die than live; since when he is wronged and trampled upon, he is

unable to help himself, or any other about whom he cares. The reason, as I conceive, is

that the makers of laws are the majority who are weak; and they make laws and

distribute praises and censures with a view to themselves and to their own interests; and

they terrify the stronger sort of men, and those who are able to get the better of them,

in order that they may not get the better of them; and they say, that dishonesty is

shameful and unjust; meaning, by the word injustice, the desire of a man to have more

than his neighbours; for knowing their own inferiority, I suspect that they are too glad of

equality. And therefore the endeavour to have more than the many, is conventionally

said to be shameful and unjust, and is called injustice (compare Republic), whereas

nature herself intimates that it is just for the better to have more than the worse, the

more powerful than the weaker; and in many ways she shows, among men as well as

among animals, and indeed among whole cities and races, that justice consists in the

superior ruling over and having more than the inferior. For on what principle of justice

did Xerxes invade Hellas, or his father the Scythians? (not to speak of numberless other

examples). Nay, but these are the men who act according to nature; yes, by Heaven, and

according to the law of nature: not, perhaps, according to that artificial law, which we

invent and impose upon our fellows, of whom we take the best and strongest from their

youth upwards, and tame them like young lions,— charming them with the sound of the

voice, and saying to them, that with equality they must be content, and that the equal is

the honourable and the just. But if there were a man who had sufficient force, he would

shake off and break through, and escape from all this; he would trample under foot all

our formulas and spells and charms, and all our laws which are against nature: the slave

would rise in rebellion and be lord over us, and the light of natural justice would shine

forth. And this I take to be the sentiment of Pindar, when he says in his poem, that

'Law is the king of all, of mortals as well as of immortals;'

this, as he says,

'Makes might to be right, doing violence with highest hand; as I infer from the deeds of

Heracles, for without buying them—' (Fragm. Incert. 151 (Bockh).)

—I do not remember the exact words, but the meaning is, that without buying them,

and without their being given to him, he carried off the oxen of Geryon, according to

the law of natural right, and that the oxen and other possessions of the weaker and

inferior properly belong to the stronger and superior. And this is true, as you may

ascertain, if you will leave philosophy and go on to higher things: for philosophy,

Socrates, if pursued in moderation and at the proper age, is an elegant accomplishment,

but too much philosophy is the ruin of human life. Even if a man has good parts, still, if

he carries philosophy into later life, he is necessarily ignorant of all those things which a

gentleman and a person of honour ought to know; he is inexperienced in the laws of the

State, and in the language which ought to be used in the dealings of man with man,

whether private or public, and utterly ignorant of the pleasures and desires of mankind

and of human character in general. And people of this sort, when they betake

themselves to politics or business, are as ridiculous as I imagine the politicians to be,

when they make their appearance in the arena of philosophy. For, as Euripides says,

'Every man shines in that and pursues that, and devotes the greatest portion of the day

to that in which he most excels,' (Antiope, fragm. 20 (Dindorf).)

but anything in which he is inferior, he avoids and depreciates, and praises the opposite

from partiality to himself, and because he thinks that he will thus praise himself. The true

principle is to unite them. Philosophy, as a part of education, is an excellent thing, and

there is no disgrace to a man while he is young in pursuing such a study; but when he is

more advanced in years, the thing becomes ridiculous, and I feel towards philosophers

as I do towards those who lisp and imitate children. For I love to see a little child, who is

not of an age to speak plainly, lisping at his play; there is an appearance of grace and

freedom in his utterance, which is natural to his childish years. But when I hear some

small creature carefully articulating its words, I am offended; the sound is disagreeable,

and has to my ears the twang of slavery. So when I hear a man lisping, or see him

playing like a child, his behaviour appears to me ridiculous and unmanly and worthy of

stripes. And I have the same feeling about students of philosophy; when I see a youth

thus engaged,—the study appears to me to be in character, and becoming a man of

liberal education, and him who neglects philosophy I regard as an inferior man, who will

never aspire to anything great or noble. But if I see him continuing the study in later life,

and not leaving off, I should like to beat him, Socrates; for, as I was saying, such a one,

even though he have good natural parts, becomes effeminate. He flies from the busy

centre and the market-place, in which, as the poet says, men become distinguished; he

creeps into a corner for the rest of his life, and talks in a whisper with three or four

admiring youths, but never speaks out like a freeman in a satisfactory manner. Now I,

Socrates, am very well inclined towards you, and my feeling may be compared with that

of Zethus towards Amphion, in the play of Euripides, whom I was mentioning just now:

for I am disposed to say to you much what Zethus said to his brother, that you, Socrates,

are careless about the things of which you ought to be careful; and that you

'Who have a soul so noble, are remarkable for a puerile exterior; Neither in a court of

justice could you state a case, or give any reason or proof, Or offer valiant counsel on

another's behalf.'

And you must not be offended, my dear Socrates, for I am speaking out of good-will

towards you, if I ask whether you are not ashamed of being thus defenceless; which I

affirm to be the condition not of you only but of all those who will carry the study of

philosophy too far. For suppose that some one were to take you, or any one of your

sort, off to prison, declaring that you had done wrong when you had done no wrong,

you must allow that you would not know what to do:—there you would stand giddy and

gaping, and not having a word to say; and when you went up before the Court, even if

the accuser were a poor creature and not good for much, you would die if he were

disposed to claim the penalty of death. And yet, Socrates, what is the value of

'An art which converts a man of sense into a fool,'

who is helpless, and has no power to save either himself or others, when he is in the

greatest danger and is going to be despoiled by his enemies of all his goods, and has to

live, simply deprived of his rights of citizenship?—he being a man who, if I may use the

expression, may be boxed on the ears with impunity. Then, my good friend, take my

advice, and refute no more:

'Learn the philosophy of business, and acquire the reputation of wisdom. But leave to

others these niceties,'

whether they are to be described as follies or absurdities:

'For they will only Give you poverty for the inmate of your dwelling.'

Cease, then, emulating these paltry splitters of words, and emulate only the man of

substance and honour, who is well to do.

SOCRATES: If my soul, Callicles, were made of gold, should I not rejoice to discover one

of those stones with which they test gold, and the very best possible one to which I

might bring my soul; and if the stone and I agreed in approving of her training, then I

should know that I was in a satisfactory state, and that no other test was needed by me.

CALLICLES: What is your meaning, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I will tell you; I think that I have found in you the desired touchstone.

CALLICLES: Why?

SOCRATES: Because I am sure that if you agree with me in any of the opinions which my

soul forms, I have at last found the truth indeed. For I consider that if a man is to make a

complete trial of the good or evil of the soul, he ought to have three qualities—

knowledge, good-will, outspokenness, which are all possessed by you. Many whom I

meet are unable to make trial of me, because they are not wise as you are; others are

wise, but they will not tell me the truth, because they have not the same interest in me

which you have; and these two strangers, Gorgias and Polus, are undoubtedly wise men

and my very good friends, but they are not outspoken enough, and they are too

modest. Why, their modesty is so great that they are driven to contradict themselves,

first one and then the other of them, in the face of a large company, on matters of the

highest moment. But you have all the qualities in which these others are deficient,

having received an excellent education; to this many Athenians can testify. And you are

my friend. Shall I tell you why I think so? I know that you, Callicles, and Tisander of

Aphidnae, and Andron the son of Androtion, and Nausicydes of the deme of Cholarges,

studied together: there were four of you, and I once heard you advising with one

another as to the extent to which the pursuit of philosophy should be carried, and, as I

know, you came to the conclusion that the study should not be pushed too much into

detail. You were cautioning one another not to be overwise; you were afraid that too

much wisdom might unconsciously to yourselves be the ruin of you. And now when I

hear you giving the same advice to me which you then gave to your most intimate

friends, I have a sufficient evidence of your real good- will to me. And of the frankness

of your nature and freedom from modesty I am assured by yourself, and the assurance

is confirmed by your last speech. Well then, the inference in the present case clearly is,

that if you agree with me in an argument about any point, that point will have been

sufficiently tested by us, and will not require to be submitted to any further test. For you

could not have agreed with me, either from lack of knowledge or from superfluity of

modesty, nor yet from a desire to deceive me, for you are my friend, as you tell me

yourself. And therefore when you and I are agreed, the result will be the attainment of

perfect truth. Now there is no nobler enquiry, Callicles, than that which you censure me

for making,—What ought the character of a man to be, and what his pursuits, and how

far is he to go, both in maturer years and in youth? For be assured that if I err in my own

conduct I do not err intentionally, but from ignorance. Do not then desist from advising

me, now that you have begun, until I have learned clearly what this is which I am to

practise, and how I may acquire it. And if you find me assenting to your words, and

hereafter not doing that to which I assented, call me 'dolt,' and deem me unworthy of

receiving further instruction. Once more, then, tell me what you and Pindar mean by

natural justice: Do you not mean that the superior should take the property of the

inferior by force; that the better should rule the worse, the noble have more than the

mean? Am I not right in my recollection?

CALLICLES: Yes; that is what I was saying, and so I still aver.

SOCRATES: And do you mean by the better the same as the superior? for I could not

make out what you were saying at the time—whether you meant by the superior the

stronger, and that the weaker must obey the stronger, as you seemed to imply when

you said that great cities attack small ones in accordance with natural right, because

they are superior and stronger, as though the superior and stronger and better were the

same; or whether the better may be also the inferior and weaker, and the superior the

worse, or whether better is to be defined in the same way as superior:—this is the point

which I want to have cleared up. Are the superior and better and stronger the same or

different?

CALLICLES: I say unequivocally that they are the same.

SOCRATES: Then the many are by nature superior to the one, against whom, as you

were saying, they make the laws?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then the laws of the many are the laws of the superior?

CALLICLES: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then they are the laws of the better; for the superior class are far better, as

you were saying?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And since they are superior, the laws which are made by them are by nature

good?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And are not the many of opinion, as you were lately saying, that justice is

equality, and that to do is more disgraceful than to suffer injustice?—is that so or not?

Answer, Callicles, and let no modesty be found to come in the way; do the many think,

or do they not think thus?—I must beg of you to answer, in order that if you agree with

me I may fortify myself by the assent of so competent an authority.

CALLICLES: Yes; the opinion of the many is what you say.

SOCRATES: Then not only custom but nature also affirms that to do is more disgraceful

than to suffer injustice, and that justice is equality; so that you seem to have been wrong

in your former assertion, when accusing me you said that nature and custom are

opposed, and that I, knowing this, was dishonestly playing between them, appealing to

custom when the argument is about nature, and to nature when the argument is about

custom?

CALLICLES: This man will never cease talking nonsense. At your age, Socrates, are you

not ashamed to be catching at words and chuckling over some verbal slip? do you not

see—have I not told you already, that by superior I mean better: do you imagine me to

say, that if a rabble of slaves and nondescripts, who are of no use except perhaps for

their physical strength, get together, their ipsissima verba are laws?

SOCRATES: Ho! my philosopher, is that your line?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: I was thinking, Callicles, that something of the kind must have been in your

mind, and that is why I repeated the question,—What is the superior? I wanted to know

clearly what you meant; for you surely do not think that two men are better than one, or

that your slaves are better than you because they are stronger? Then please to begin

again, and tell me who the better are, if they are not the stronger; and I will ask you,

great Sir, to be a little milder in your instructions, or I shall have to run away from you.

CALLICLES: You are ironical.

SOCRATES: No, by the hero Zethus, Callicles, by whose aid you were just now saying

many ironical things against me, I am not:—tell me, then, whom you mean, by the

better?

CALLICLES: I mean the more excellent.

SOCRATES: Do you not see that you are yourself using words which have no meaning

and that you are explaining nothing?—will you tell me whether you mean by the better

and superior the wiser, or if not, whom?

CALLICLES: Most assuredly, I do mean the wiser.

SOCRATES: Then according to you, one wise man may often be superior to ten

thousand fools, and he ought to rule them, and they ought to be his subjects, and he

ought to have more than they should. This is what I believe that you mean (and you

must not suppose that I am word-catching), if you allow that the one is superior to the

ten thousand?

CALLICLES: Yes; that is what I mean, and that is what I conceive to be natural justice—

that the better and wiser should rule and have more than the inferior.

SOCRATES: Stop there, and let me ask you what you would say in this case: Let us

suppose that we are all together as we are now; there are several of us, and we have a

large common store of meats and drinks, and there are all sorts of persons in our

company having various degrees of strength and weakness, and one of us, being a

physician, is wiser in the matter of food than all the rest, and he is probably stronger

than some and not so strong as others of us—will he not, being wiser, be also better

than we are, and our superior in this matter of food?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Either, then, he will have a larger share of the meats and drinks, because he

is better, or he will have the distribution of all of them by reason of his authority, but he

will not expend or make use of a larger share of them on his own person, or if he does,

he will be punished; —his share will exceed that of some, and be less than that of

others, and if he be the weakest of all, he being the best of all will have the smallest

share of all, Callicles:—am I not right, my friend?

CALLICLES: You talk about meats and drinks and physicians and other nonsense; I am

not speaking of them.

SOCRATES: Well, but do you admit that the wiser is the better? Answer 'Yes' or 'No.'

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And ought not the better to have a larger share?

CALLICLES: Not of meats and drinks.

SOCRATES: I understand: then, perhaps, of coats—the skilfullest weaver ought to have

the largest coat, and the greatest number of them, and go about clothed in the best and

finest of them?

CALLICLES: Fudge about coats!

SOCRATES: Then the skilfullest and best in making shoes ought to have the advantage

in shoes; the shoemaker, clearly, should walk about in the largest shoes, and have the

greatest number of them?

CALLICLES: Fudge about shoes! What nonsense are you talking?

SOCRATES: Or, if this is not your meaning, perhaps you would say that the wise and

good and true husbandman should actually have a larger share of seeds, and have as

much seed as possible for his own land?

CALLICLES: How you go on, always talking in the same way, Socrates!

SOCRATES: Yes, Callicles, and also about the same things.

CALLICLES: Yes, by the Gods, you are literally always talking of cobblers and fullers and

cooks and doctors, as if this had to do with our argument.

SOCRATES: But why will you not tell me in what a man must be superior and wiser in

order to claim a larger share; will you neither accept a suggestion, nor offer one?

CALLICLES: I have already told you. In the first place, I mean by superiors not cobblers or

cooks, but wise politicians who understand the administration of a state, and who are

not only wise, but also valiant and able to carry out their designs, and not the men to

faint from want of soul.

SOCRATES: See now, most excellent Callicles, how different my charge against you is

from that which you bring against me, for you reproach me with always saying the

same; but I reproach you with never saying the same about the same things, for at one

time you were defining the better and the superior to be the stronger, then again as the

wiser, and now you bring forward a new notion; the superior and the better are now

declared by you to be the more courageous: I wish, my good friend, that you would tell

me, once for all, whom you affirm to be the better and superior, and in what they are

better?

CALLICLES: I have already told you that I mean those who are wise and courageous in

the administration of a state—they ought to be the rulers of their states, and justice

consists in their having more than their subjects.

SOCRATES: But whether rulers or subjects will they or will they not have more than

themselves, my friend?

CALLICLES: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: I mean that every man is his own ruler; but perhaps you think that there is

no necessity for him to rule himself; he is only required to rule others?

CALLICLES: What do you mean by his 'ruling over himself'?

SOCRATES: A simple thing enough; just what is commonly said, that a man should be

temperate and master of himself, and ruler of his own pleasures and passions.

CALLICLES: What innocence! you mean those fools,—the temperate?

SOCRATES: Certainly:—any one may know that to be my meaning.

CALLICLES: Quite so, Socrates; and they are really fools, for how can a man be happy

who is the servant of anything? On the contrary, I plainly assert, that he who would truly

live ought to allow his desires to wax to the uttermost, and not to chastise them; but

when they have grown to their greatest he should have courage and intelligence to

minister to them and to satisfy all his longings. And this I affirm to be natural justice and

nobility. To this however the many cannot attain; and they blame the strong man

because they are ashamed of their own weakness, which they desire to conceal, and

hence they say that intemperance is base. As I have remarked already, they enslave the

nobler natures, and being unable to satisfy their pleasures, they praise temperance and

justice out of their own cowardice. For if a man had been originally the son of a king, or

had a nature capable of acquiring an empire or a tyranny or sovereignty, what could be

more truly base or evil than temperance—to a man like him, I say, who might freely be

enjoying every good, and has no one to stand in his way, and yet has admitted custom

and reason and the opinion of other men to be lords over him?—must not he be in a

miserable plight whom the reputation of justice and temperance hinders from giving

more to his friends than to his enemies, even though he be a ruler in his city? Nay,

Socrates, for you profess to be a votary of the truth, and the truth is this:—that luxury

and intemperance and licence, if they be provided with means, are virtue and

happiness—all the rest is a mere bauble, agreements contrary to nature, foolish talk of

men, nothing worth. (Compare Republic.)

SOCRATES: There is a noble freedom, Callicles, in your way of approaching the

argument; for what you say is what the rest of the world think, but do not like to say.

And I must beg of you to persevere, that the true rule of human life may become

manifest. Tell me, then:—you say, do you not, that in the rightly-developed man the

passions ought not to be controlled, but that we should let them grow to the utmost

and somehow or other satisfy them, and that this is virtue?

CALLICLES: Yes; I do.

SOCRATES: Then those who want nothing are not truly said to be happy?

CALLICLES: No indeed, for then stones and dead men would be the happiest of all.

SOCRATES: But surely life according to your view is an awful thing; and indeed I think

that Euripides may have been right in saying,

'Who knows if life be not death and death life;'

and that we are very likely dead; I have heard a philosopher say that at this moment we

are actually dead, and that the body (soma) is our tomb (sema (compare Phaedr.)), and

that the part of the soul which is the seat of the desires is liable to be tossed about by

words and blown up and down; and some ingenious person, probably a Sicilian or an

Italian, playing with the word, invented a tale in which he called the soul—because of its

believing and make-believe nature—a vessel (An untranslatable pun,—dia to pithanon

te kai pistikon onomase pithon.), and the ignorant he called the uninitiated or leaky, and

the place in the souls of the uninitiated in which the desires are seated, being the

intemperate and incontinent part, he compared to a vessel full of holes, because it can

never be satisfied. He is not of your way of thinking, Callicles, for he declares, that of all

the souls in Hades, meaning the invisible world (aeides), these uninitiated or leaky

persons are the most miserable, and that they pour water into a vessel which is full of

holes out of a colander which is similarly perforated. The colander, as my informer

assures me, is the soul, and the soul which he compares to a colander is the soul of the

ignorant, which is likewise full of holes, and therefore incontinent, owing to a bad

memory and want of faith. These notions are strange enough, but they show the

principle which, if I can, I would fain prove to you; that you should change your mind,

and, instead of the intemperate and insatiate life, choose that which is orderly and

sufficient and has a due provision for daily needs. Do I make any impression on you, and

are you coming over to the opinion that the orderly are happier than the intemperate?

Or do I fail to persuade you, and, however many tales I rehearse to you, do you continue

of the same opinion still?

CALLICLES: The latter, Socrates, is more like the truth.

SOCRATES: Well, I will tell you another image, which comes out of the same school:—Let

me request you to consider how far you would accept this as an account of the two lives

of the temperate and intemperate in a figure:— There are two men, both of whom have

a number of casks; the one man has his casks sound and full, one of wine, another of

honey, and a third of milk, besides others filled with other liquids, and the streams which

fill them are few and scanty, and he can only obtain them with a great deal of toil and

difficulty; but when his casks are once filled he has no need to feed them any more, and

has no further trouble with them or care about them. The other, in like manner, can

procure streams, though not without difficulty; but his vessels are leaky and unsound,

and night and day he is compelled to be filling them, and if he pauses for a moment, he

is in an agony of pain. Such are their respective lives:—And now would you say that the

life of the intemperate is happier than that of the temperate? Do I not convince you that

the opposite is the truth?

CALLICLES: You do not convince me, Socrates, for the one who has filled himself has no

longer any pleasure left; and this, as I was just now saying, is the life of a stone: he has

neither joy nor sorrow after he is once filled; but the pleasure depends on the

superabundance of the influx.

SOCRATES: But the more you pour in, the greater the waste; and the holes must be large

for the liquid to escape.

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: The life which you are now depicting is not that of a dead man, or of a

stone, but of a cormorant; you mean that he is to be hungering and eating?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And he is to be thirsting and drinking?

CALLICLES: Yes, that is what I mean; he is to have all his desires about him, and to be

able to live happily in the gratification of them.

SOCRATES: Capital, excellent; go on as you have begun, and have no shame; I, too, must

disencumber myself of shame: and first, will you tell me whether you include itching and

scratching, provided you have enough of them and pass your life in scratching, in your

notion of happiness?

CALLICLES: What a strange being you are, Socrates! a regular mob-orator.

SOCRATES: That was the reason, Callicles, why I scared Polus and Gorgias, until they

were too modest to say what they thought; but you will not be too modest and will not

be scared, for you are a brave man. And now, answer my question.

CALLICLES: I answer, that even the scratcher would live pleasantly.

SOCRATES: And if pleasantly, then also happily?

CALLICLES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: But what if the itching is not confined to the head? Shall I pursue the

question? And here, Callicles, I would have you consider how you would reply if

consequences are pressed upon you, especially if in the last resort you are asked,

whether the life of a catamite is not terrible, foul, miserable? Or would you venture to

say, that they too are happy, if they only get enough of what they want?

CALLICLES: Are you not ashamed, Socrates, of introducing such topics into the

argument?

SOCRATES: Well, my fine friend, but am I the introducer of these topics, or he who says

without any qualification that all who feel pleasure in whatever manner are happy, and

who admits of no distinction between good and bad pleasures? And I would still ask,

whether you say that pleasure and good are the same, or whether there is some

pleasure which is not a good?

CALLICLES: Well, then, for the sake of consistency, I will say that they are the same.

SOCRATES: You are breaking the original agreement, Callicles, and will no longer be a

satisfactory companion in the search after truth, if you say what is contrary to your real

opinion.

CALLICLES: Why, that is what you are doing too, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then we are both doing wrong. Still, my dear friend, I would ask you to

consider whether pleasure, from whatever source derived, is the good; for, if this be true,

then the disagreeable consequences which have been darkly intimated must follow, and

many others.

CALLICLES: That, Socrates, is only your opinion.

SOCRATES: And do you, Callicles, seriously maintain what you are saying?

CALLICLES: Indeed I do.

SOCRATES: Then, as you are in earnest, shall we proceed with the argument?

CALLICLES: By all means. (Or, 'I am in profound earnest.')

SOCRATES: Well, if you are willing to proceed, determine this question for me:—There is

something, I presume, which you would call knowledge?

CALLICLES: There is.

SOCRATES: And were you not saying just now, that some courage implied knowledge?

CALLICLES: I was.

SOCRATES: And you were speaking of courage and knowledge as two things different

from one another?

CALLICLES: Certainly I was.

SOCRATES: And would you say that pleasure and knowledge are the same, or not the

same?

CALLICLES: Not the same, O man of wisdom.

SOCRATES: And would you say that courage differed from pleasure?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Well, then, let us remember that Callicles, the Acharnian, says that pleasure

and good are the same; but that knowledge and courage are not the same, either with

one another, or with the good.

CALLICLES: And what does our friend Socrates, of Foxton, say—does he assent to this, or

not?

SOCRATES: He does not assent; neither will Callicles, when he sees himself truly. You will

admit, I suppose, that good and evil fortune are opposed to each other?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if they are opposed to each other, then, like health and disease, they

exclude one another; a man cannot have them both, or be without them both, at the

same time?

CALLICLES: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: Take the case of any bodily affection:—a man may have the complaint in his

eyes which is called ophthalmia?

CALLICLES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: But he surely cannot have the same eyes well and sound at the same time?

CALLICLES: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: And when he has got rid of his ophthalmia, has he got rid of the health of

his eyes too? Is the final result, that he gets rid of them both together?

CALLICLES: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: That would surely be marvellous and absurd?

CALLICLES: Very.

SOCRATES: I suppose that he is affected by them, and gets rid of them in turns?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And he may have strength and weakness in the same way, by fits?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Or swiftness and slowness?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And does he have and not have good and happiness, and their opposites,

evil and misery, in a similar alternation? (Compare Republic.)

CALLICLES: Certainly he has.

SOCRATES: If then there be anything which a man has and has not at the same time,

clearly that cannot be good and evil—do we agree? Please not to answer without

consideration.

CALLICLES: I entirely agree.

SOCRATES: Go back now to our former admissions.—Did you say that to hunger, I mean

the mere state of hunger, was pleasant or painful?

CALLICLES: I said painful, but that to eat when you are hungry is pleasant.

SOCRATES: I know; but still the actual hunger is painful: am I not right?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And thirst, too, is painful?

CALLICLES: Yes, very.

SOCRATES: Need I adduce any more instances, or would you agree that all wants or

desires are painful?

CALLICLES: I agree, and therefore you need not adduce any more instances.

SOCRATES: Very good. And you would admit that to drink, when you are thirsty, is

pleasant?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And in the sentence which you have just uttered, the word 'thirsty' implies

pain?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the word 'drinking' is expressive of pleasure, and of the satisfaction of

the want?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: There is pleasure in drinking?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: When you are thirsty?

SOCRATES: And in pain?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Do you see the inference:—that pleasure and pain are simultaneous, when

you say that being thirsty, you drink? For are they not simultaneous, and do they not

affect at the same time the same part, whether of the soul or the body?—which of them

is affected cannot be supposed to be of any consequence: Is not this true?

CALLICLES: It is.

SOCRATES: You said also, that no man could have good and evil fortune at the same

time?

CALLICLES: Yes, I did.

SOCRATES: But you admitted, that when in pain a man might also have pleasure?

CALLICLES: Clearly.

SOCRATES: Then pleasure is not the same as good fortune, or pain the same as evil

fortune, and therefore the good is not the same as the pleasant?

CALLICLES: I wish I knew, Socrates, what your quibbling means.

SOCRATES: You know, Callicles, but you affect not to know.

CALLICLES: Well, get on, and don't keep fooling: then you will know what a wiseacre you

are in your admonition of me.

SOCRATES: Does not a man cease from his thirst and from his pleasure in drinking at the

same time?

CALLICLES: I do not understand what you are saying.

GORGIAS: Nay, Callicles, answer, if only for our sakes;—we should like to hear the

argument out.

CALLICLES: Yes, Gorgias, but I must complain of the habitual trifling of Socrates; he is

always arguing about little and unworthy questions.

GORGIAS: What matter? Your reputation, Callicles, is not at stake. Let Socrates argue in

his own fashion.

CALLICLES: Well, then, Socrates, you shall ask these little peddling questions, since

Gorgias wishes to have them.

SOCRATES: I envy you, Callicles, for having been initiated into the great mysteries before

you were initiated into the lesser. I thought that this was not allowable. But to return to

our argument:—Does not a man cease from thirsting and from the pleasure of drinking

at the same moment?

CALLICLES: True.

SOCRATES: And if he is hungry, or has any other desire, does he not cease from the

desire and the pleasure at the same moment?

CALLICLES: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then he ceases from pain and pleasure at the same moment?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: But he does not cease from good and evil at the same moment, as you have

admitted: do you still adhere to what you said?

CALLICLES: Yes, I do; but what is the inference?

SOCRATES: Why, my friend, the inference is that the good is not the same as the

pleasant, or the evil the same as the painful; there is a cessation of pleasure and pain at

the same moment; but not of good and evil, for they are different. How then can

pleasure be the same as good, or pain as evil? And I would have you look at the matter

in another light, which could hardly, I think, have been considered by you when you

identified them: Are not the good good because they have good present with them, as

the beautiful are those who have beauty present with them?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And do you call the fools and cowards good men? For you were saying just

now that the courageous and the wise are the good—would you not say so?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And did you never see a foolish child rejoicing?

CALLICLES: Yes, I have.

SOCRATES: And a foolish man too?

CALLICLES: Yes, certainly; but what is your drift?

SOCRATES: Nothing particular, if you will only answer.

CALLICLES: Yes, I have.

SOCRATES: And did you ever see a sensible man rejoicing or sorrowing?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Which rejoice and sorrow most—the wise or the foolish?

CALLICLES: They are much upon a par, I think, in that respect.

SOCRATES: Enough: And did you ever see a coward in battle?

CALLICLES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And which rejoiced most at the departure of the enemy, the coward or the

brave?

CALLICLES: I should say 'most' of both; or at any rate, they rejoiced about equally.

SOCRATES: No matter; then the cowards, and not only the brave, rejoice?

CALLICLES: Greatly.

SOCRATES: And the foolish; so it would seem?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And are only the cowards pained at the approach of their enemies, or are

the brave also pained?

CALLICLES: Both are pained.

SOCRATES: And are they equally pained?

CALLICLES: I should imagine that the cowards are more pained.

SOCRATES: And are they not better pleased at the enemy's departure?

CALLICLES: I dare say.

SOCRATES: Then are the foolish and the wise and the cowards and the brave all pleased

and pained, as you were saying, in nearly equal degree; but are the cowards more

pleased and pained than the brave?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: But surely the wise and brave are the good, and the foolish and the

cowardly are the bad?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then the good and the bad are pleased and pained in a nearly equal

degree?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then are the good and bad good and bad in a nearly equal degree, or have

the bad the advantage both in good and evil? (i.e. in having more pleasure and more

pain.)

CALLICLES: I really do not know what you mean.

SOCRATES: Why, do you not remember saying that the good were good because good

was present with them, and the evil because evil; and that pleasures were goods and

pains evils?

CALLICLES: Yes, I remember.

SOCRATES: And are not these pleasures or goods present to those who rejoice—if they

do rejoice?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then those who rejoice are good when goods are present with them?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And those who are in pain have evil or sorrow present with them?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And would you still say that the evil are evil by reason of the presence of

evil?

CALLICLES: I should.

SOCRATES: Then those who rejoice are good, and those who are in pain evil?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: The degrees of good and evil vary with the degrees of pleasure and of pain?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Have the wise man and the fool, the brave and the coward, joy and pain in

nearly equal degrees? or would you say that the coward has more?

CALLICLES: I should say that he has.

SOCRATES: Help me then to draw out the conclusion which follows from our

admissions; for it is good to repeat and review what is good twice and thrice over, as

they say. Both the wise man and the brave man we allow to be good?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the foolish man and the coward to be evil?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And he who has joy is good?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And he who is in pain is evil?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: The good and evil both have joy and pain, but, perhaps, the evil has more of

them?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then must we not infer, that the bad man is as good and bad as the good,

or, perhaps, even better?—is not this a further inference which follows equally with the

preceding from the assertion that the good and the pleasant are the same:—can this be

denied, Callicles?

CALLICLES: I have been listening and making admissions to you, Socrates; and I remark

that if a person grants you anything in play, you, like a child, want to keep hold and will

not give it back. But do you really suppose that I or any other human being denies that

some pleasures are good and others bad?

SOCRATES: Alas, Callicles, how unfair you are! you certainly treat me as if I were a child,

sometimes saying one thing, and then another, as if you were meaning to deceive me.

And yet I thought at first that you were my friend, and would not have deceived me if

you could have helped. But I see that I was mistaken; and now I suppose that I must

make the best of a bad business, as they said of old, and take what I can get out of

you.—Well, then, as I understand you to say, I may assume that some pleasures are

good and others evil?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: The beneficial are good, and the hurtful are evil?

CALLICLES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And the beneficial are those which do some good, and the hurtful are those

which do some evil?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Take, for example, the bodily pleasures of eating and drinking, which we

were just now mentioning—you mean to say that those which promote health, or any

other bodily excellence, are good, and their opposites evil?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And in the same way there are good pains and there are evil pains?

CALLICLES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And ought we not to choose and use the good pleasures and pains?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: But not the evil?

CALLICLES: Clearly.

SOCRATES: Because, if you remember, Polus and I have agreed that all our actions are to

be done for the sake of the good;—and will you agree with us in saying, that the good is

the end of all our actions, and that all our actions are to be done for the sake of the

good, and not the good for the sake of them?—will you add a third vote to our two?

CALLICLES: I will.

SOCRATES: Then pleasure, like everything else, is to be sought for the sake of that which

is good, and not that which is good for the sake of pleasure?

CALLICLES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: But can every man choose what pleasures are good and what are evil, or

must he have art or knowledge of them in detail?

CALLICLES: He must have art.

SOCRATES: Let me now remind you of what I was saying to Gorgias and Polus; I was

saying, as you will not have forgotten, that there were some processes which aim only at

pleasure, and know nothing of a better and worse, and there are other processes which

know good and evil. And I considered that cookery, which I do not call an art, but only

an experience, was of the former class, which is concerned with pleasure, and that the

art of medicine was of the class which is concerned with the good. And now, by the god

of friendship, I must beg you, Callicles, not to jest, or to imagine that I am jesting with

you; do not answer at random and contrary to your real opinion—for you will observe

that we are arguing about the way of human life; and to a man who has any sense at all,

what question can be more serious than this?—whether he should follow after that way

of life to which you exhort me, and act what you call the manly part of speaking in the

assembly, and cultivating rhetoric, and engaging in public affairs, according to the

principles now in vogue; or whether he should pursue the life of philosophy;—and in

what the latter way differs from the former. But perhaps we had better first try to

distinguish them, as I did before, and when we have come to an agreement that they

are distinct, we may proceed to consider in what they differ from one another, and

which of them we should choose. Perhaps, however, you do not even now understand

what I mean?

CALLICLES: No, I do not.

SOCRATES: Then I will explain myself more clearly: seeing that you and I have agreed

that there is such a thing as good, and that there is such a thing as pleasure, and that

pleasure is not the same as good, and that the pursuit and process of acquisition of the

one, that is pleasure, is different from the pursuit and process of acquisition of the other,

which is good—I wish that you would tell me whether you agree with me thus far or

not—do you agree?

CALLICLES: I do.

SOCRATES: Then I will proceed, and ask whether you also agree with me, and whether

you think that I spoke the truth when I further said to Gorgias and Polus that cookery in

my opinion is only an experience, and not an art at all; and that whereas medicine is an

art, and attends to the nature and constitution of the patient, and has principles of

action and reason in each case, cookery in attending upon pleasure never regards either

the nature or reason of that pleasure to which she devotes herself, but goes straight to

her end, nor ever considers or calculates anything, but works by experience and routine,

and just preserves the recollection of what she has usually done when producing

pleasure. And first, I would have you consider whether I have proved what I was saying,

and then whether there are not other similar processes which have to do with the soul—

some of them processes of art, making a provision for the soul's highest interest—

others despising the interest, and, as in the previous case, considering only the pleasure

of the soul, and how this may be acquired, but not considering what pleasures are good

or bad, and having no other aim but to afford gratification, whether good or bad. In my

opinion, Callicles, there are such processes, and this is the sort of thing which I term

flattery, whether concerned with the body or the soul, or whenever employed with a

view to pleasure and without any consideration of good and evil. And now I wish that

you would tell me whether you agree with us in this notion, or whether you differ.

CALLICLES: I do not differ; on the contrary, I agree; for in that way I shall soonest bring

the argument to an end, and shall oblige my friend Gorgias.

SOCRATES: And is this notion true of one soul, or of two or more?

CALLICLES: Equally true of two or more.

SOCRATES: Then a man may delight a whole assembly, and yet have no regard for their

true interests?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Can you tell me the pursuits which delight mankind—or rather, if you would

prefer, let me ask, and do you answer, which of them belong to the pleasurable class,

and which of them not? In the first place, what say you of flute-playing? Does not that

appear to be an art which seeks only pleasure, Callicles, and thinks of nothing else?

CALLICLES: I assent.

SOCRATES: And is not the same true of all similar arts, as, for example, the art of playing

the lyre at festivals?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And what do you say of the choral art and of dithyrambic poetry?—are not

they of the same nature? Do you imagine that Cinesias the son of Meles cares about

what will tend to the moral improvement of his hearers, or about what will give pleasure

to the multitude?

CALLICLES: There can be no mistake about Cinesias, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And what do you say of his father, Meles the harp-player? Did he perform

with any view to the good of his hearers? Could he be said to regard even their

pleasure? For his singing was an infliction to his audience. And of harp-playing and

dithyrambic poetry in general, what would you say? Have they not been invented wholly

for the sake of pleasure?

CALLICLES: That is my notion of them.

SOCRATES: And as for the Muse of Tragedy, that solemn and august personage—what

are her aspirations? Is all her aim and desire only to give pleasure to the spectators, or

does she fight against them and refuse to speak of their pleasant vices, and willingly

proclaim in word and song truths welcome and unwelcome?—which in your judgment is

her character?

CALLICLES: There can be no doubt, Socrates, that Tragedy has her face turned towards

pleasure and the gratification of the audience.

SOCRATES: And is not that the sort of thing, Callicles, which we were just now describing

as flattery?

CALLICLES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: Well now, suppose that we strip all poetry of song and rhythm and metre,

there will remain speech? (Compare Republic.)

CALLICLES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And this speech is addressed to a crowd of people?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then poetry is a sort of rhetoric?

CALLICLES: True.

SOCRATES: And do not the poets in the theatres seem to you to be rhetoricians?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then now we have discovered a sort of rhetoric which is addressed to a

crowd of men, women, and children, freemen and slaves. And this is not much to our

taste, for we have described it as having the nature of flattery.

CALLICLES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: Very good. And what do you say of that other rhetoric which addresses the

Athenian assembly and the assemblies of freemen in other states? Do the rhetoricians

appear to you always to aim at what is best, and do they seek to improve the citizens by

their speeches, or are they too, like the rest of mankind, bent upon giving them

pleasure, forgetting the public good in the thought of their own interest, playing with

the people as with children, and trying to amuse them, but never considering whether

they are better or worse for this?

CALLICLES: I must distinguish. There are some who have a real care of the public in what

they say, while others are such as you describe.

SOCRATES: I am contented with the admission that rhetoric is of two sorts; one, which is

mere flattery and disgraceful declamation; the other, which is noble and aims at the

training and improvement of the souls of the citizens, and strives to say what is best,

whether welcome or unwelcome, to the audience; but have you ever known such a

rhetoric; or if you have, and can point out any rhetorician who is of this stamp, who is

he?

CALLICLES: But, indeed, I am afraid that I cannot tell you of any such among the orators

who are at present living.

SOCRATES: Well, then, can you mention any one of a former generation, who may be

said to have improved the Athenians, who found them worse and made them better,

from the day that he began to make speeches? for, indeed, I do not know of such a

man.

CALLICLES: What! did you never hear that Themistocles was a good man, and Cimon

and Miltiades and Pericles, who is just lately dead, and whom you heard yourself?

SOCRATES: Yes, Callicles, they were good men, if, as you said at first, true virtue consists

only in the satisfaction of our own desires and those of others; but if not, and if, as we

were afterwards compelled to acknowledge, the satisfaction of some desires makes us

better, and of others, worse, and we ought to gratify the one and not the other, and

there is an art in distinguishing them,—can you tell me of any of these statesmen who

did distinguish them?

CALLICLES: No, indeed, I cannot.

SOCRATES: Yet, surely, Callicles, if you look you will find such a one. Suppose that we

just calmly consider whether any of these was such as I have described. Will not the

good man, who says whatever he says with a view to the best, speak with a reference to

some standard and not at random; just as all other artists, whether the painter, the

builder, the shipwright, or any other look all of them to their own work, and do not

select and apply at random what they apply, but strive to give a definite form to it? The

artist disposes all things in order, and compels the one part to harmonize and accord

with the other part, until he has constructed a regular and systematic whole; and this is

true of all artists, and in the same way the trainers and physicians, of whom we spoke

before, give order and regularity to the body: do you deny this?

CALLICLES: No; I am ready to admit it.

SOCRATES: Then the house in which order and regularity prevail is good; that in which

there is disorder, evil?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the same is true of a ship?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the same may be said of the human body?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And what would you say of the soul? Will the good soul be that in which

disorder is prevalent, or that in which there is harmony and order?

CALLICLES: The latter follows from our previous admissions.

SOCRATES: What is the name which is given to the effect of harmony and order in the

body?

CALLICLES: I suppose that you mean health and strength?

SOCRATES: Yes, I do; and what is the name which you would give to the effect of

harmony and order in the soul? Try and discover a name for this as well as for the other.

CALLICLES: Why not give the name yourself, Socrates?

SOCRATES: Well, if you had rather that I should, I will; and you shall say whether you

agree with me, and if not, you shall refute and answer me. 'Healthy,' as I conceive, is the

name which is given to the regular order of the body, whence comes health and every

other bodily excellence: is that true or not?

CALLICLES: True.

SOCRATES: And 'lawful' and 'law' are the names which are given to the regular order

and action of the soul, and these make men lawful and orderly:—and so we have

temperance and justice: have we not?

CALLICLES: Granted.

SOCRATES: And will not the true rhetorician who is honest and understands his art have

his eye fixed upon these, in all the words which he addresses to the souls of men, and in

all his actions, both in what he gives and in what he takes away? Will not his aim be to

implant justice in the souls of his citizens and take away injustice, to implant temperance

and take away intemperance, to implant every virtue and take away every vice? Do you

not agree?

CALLICLES: I agree.

SOCRATES: For what use is there, Callicles, in giving to the body of a sick man who is in

a bad state of health a quantity of the most delightful food or drink or any other

pleasant thing, which may be really as bad for him as if you gave him nothing, or even

worse if rightly estimated. Is not that true?

CALLICLES: I will not say No to it.

SOCRATES: For in my opinion there is no profit in a man's life if his body is in an evil

plight—in that case his life also is evil: am I not right?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: When a man is in health the physicians will generally allow him to eat when

he is hungry and drink when he is thirsty, and to satisfy his desires as he likes, but when

he is sick they hardly suffer him to satisfy his desires at all: even you will admit that?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And does not the same argument hold of the soul, my good sir? While she is

in a bad state and is senseless and intemperate and unjust and unholy, her desires

ought to be controlled, and she ought to be prevented from doing anything which does

not tend to her own improvement.

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Such treatment will be better for the soul herself?

CALLICLES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And to restrain her from her appetites is to chastise her?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then restraint or chastisement is better for the soul than intemperance or

the absence of control, which you were just now preferring?

CALLICLES: I do not understand you, Socrates, and I wish that you would ask some one

who does.

SOCRATES: Here is a gentleman who cannot endure to be improved or to subject

himself to that very chastisement of which the argument speaks!

CALLICLES: I do not heed a word of what you are saying, and have only answered

hitherto out of civility to Gorgias.

SOCRATES: What are we to do, then? Shall we break off in the middle?

CALLICLES: You shall judge for yourself.

SOCRATES: Well, but people say that 'a tale should have a head and not break off in the

middle,' and I should not like to have the argument going about without a head

(compare Laws); please then to go on a little longer, and put the head on.

CALLICLES: How tyrannical you are, Socrates! I wish that you and your argument would

rest, or that you would get some one else to argue with you.

SOCRATES: But who else is willing?—I want to finish the argument.

CALLICLES: Cannot you finish without my help, either talking straight on, or questioning

and answering yourself?

SOCRATES: Must I then say with Epicharmus, 'Two men spoke before, but now one shall

be enough'? I suppose that there is absolutely no help. And if I am to carry on the

enquiry by myself, I will first of all remark that not only I but all of us should have an

ambition to know what is true and what is false in this matter, for the discovery of the

truth is a common good. And now I will proceed to argue according to my own notion.

But if any of you think that I arrive at conclusions which are untrue you must interpose

and refute me, for I do not speak from any knowledge of what I am saying; I am an

enquirer like yourselves, and therefore, if my opponent says anything which is of force, I

shall be the first to agree with him. I am speaking on the supposition that the argument

ought to be completed; but if you think otherwise let us leave off and go our ways.

GORGIAS: I think, Socrates, that we should not go our ways until you have completed

the argument; and this appears to me to be the wish of the rest of the company; I myself

should very much like to hear what more you have to say.

SOCRATES: I too, Gorgias, should have liked to continue the argument with Callicles, and

then I might have given him an 'Amphion' in return for his 'Zethus'; but since you,

Callicles, are unwilling to continue, I hope that you will listen, and interrupt me if I seem

to you to be in error. And if you refute me, I shall not be angry with you as you are with

me, but I shall inscribe you as the greatest of benefactors on the tablets of my soul.

CALLICLES: My good fellow, never mind me, but get on.

SOCRATES: Listen to me, then, while I recapitulate the argument:—Is the pleasant the

same as the good? Not the same. Callicles and I are agreed about that. And is the

pleasant to be pursued for the sake of the good? or the good for the sake of the

pleasant? The pleasant is to be pursued for the sake of the good. And that is pleasant at

the presence of which we are pleased, and that is good at the presence of which we are

good? To be sure. And we are good, and all good things whatever are good when some

virtue is present in us or them? That, Callicles, is my conviction. But the virtue of each

thing, whether body or soul, instrument or creature, when given to them in the best way

comes to them not by chance but as the result of the order and truth and art which are

imparted to them: Am I not right? I maintain that I am. And is not the virtue of each

thing dependent on order or arrangement? Yes, I say. And that which makes a thing

good is the proper order inhering in each thing? Such is my view. And is not the soul

which has an order of her own better than that which has no order? Certainly. And the

soul which has order is orderly? Of course. And that which is orderly is temperate?

Assuredly. And the temperate soul is good? No other answer can I give, Callicles dear;

have you any?

CALLICLES: Go on, my good fellow.

SOCRATES: Then I shall proceed to add, that if the temperate soul is the good soul, the

soul which is in the opposite condition, that is, the foolish and intemperate, is the bad

soul. Very true.

And will not the temperate man do what is proper, both in relation to the gods and to

men;—for he would not be temperate if he did not? Certainly he will do what is proper.

In his relation to other men he will do what is just; and in his relation to the gods he will

do what is holy; and he who does what is just and holy must be just and holy? Very true.

And must he not be courageous? for the duty of a temperate man is not to follow or to

avoid what he ought not, but what he ought, whether things or men or pleasures or

pains, and patiently to endure when he ought; and therefore, Callicles, the temperate

man, being, as we have described, also just and courageous and holy, cannot be other

than a perfectly good man, nor can the good man do otherwise than well and perfectly

whatever he does; and he who does well must of necessity be happy and blessed, and

the evil man who does evil, miserable: now this latter is he whom you were

applauding—the intemperate who is the opposite of the temperate. Such is my position,

and these things I affirm to be true. And if they are true, then I further affirm that he

who desires to be happy must pursue and practise temperance and run away from

intemperance as fast as his legs will carry him: he had better order his life so as not to

need punishment; but if either he or any of his friends, whether private individual or city,

are in need of punishment, then justice must be done and he must suffer punishment, if

he would be happy. This appears to me to be the aim which a man ought to have, and

towards which he ought to direct all the energies both of himself and of the state, acting

so that he may have temperance and justice present with him and be happy, not

suffering his lusts to be unrestrained, and in the never-ending desire satisfy them

leading a robber's life. Such a one is the friend neither of God nor man, for he is

incapable of communion, and he who is incapable of communion is also incapable of

friendship. And philosophers tell us, Callicles, that communion and friendship and

orderliness and temperance and justice bind together heaven and earth and gods and

men, and that this universe is therefore called Cosmos or order, not disorder or misrule,

my friend. But although you are a philosopher you seem to me never to have observed

that geometrical equality is mighty, both among gods and men; you think that you

ought to cultivate inequality or excess, and do not care about geometry.—Well, then,

either the principle that the happy are made happy by the possession of justice and

temperance, and the miserable miserable by the possession of vice, must be refuted, or,

if it is granted, what will be the consequences? All the consequences which I drew

before, Callicles, and about which you asked me whether I was in earnest when I said

that a man ought to accuse himself and his son and his friend if he did anything wrong,

and that to this end he should use his rhetoric—all those consequences are true. And

that which you thought that Polus was led to admit out of modesty is true, viz., that, to

do injustice, if more disgraceful than to suffer, is in that degree worse; and the other

position, which, according to Polus, Gorgias admitted out of modesty, that he who

would truly be a rhetorician ought to be just and have a knowledge of justice, has also

turned out to be true.

And now, these things being as we have said, let us proceed in the next place to

consider whether you are right in throwing in my teeth that I am unable to help myself

or any of my friends or kinsmen, or to save them in the extremity of danger, and that I

am in the power of another like an outlaw to whom any one may do what he likes,—he

may box my ears, which was a brave saying of yours; or take away my goods or banish

me, or even do his worst and kill me; a condition which, as you say, is the height of

disgrace. My answer to you is one which has been already often repeated, but may as

well be repeated once more. I tell you, Callicles, that to be boxed on the ears wrongfully

is not the worst evil which can befall a man, nor to have my purse or my body cut open,

but that to smite and slay me and mine wrongfully is far more disgraceful and more evil;

aye, and to despoil and enslave and pillage, or in any way at all to wrong me and mine,

is far more disgraceful and evil to the doer of the wrong than to me who am the

sufferer. These truths, which have been already set forth as I state them in the previous

discussion, would seem now to have been fixed and riveted by us, if I may use an

expression which is certainly bold, in words which are like bonds of iron and adamant;

and unless you or some other still more enterprising hero shall break them, there is no

possibility of denying what I say. For my position has always been, that I myself am

ignorant how these things are, but that I have never met any one who could say

otherwise, any more than you can, and not appear ridiculous. This is my position still,

and if what I am saying is true, and injustice is the greatest of evils to the doer of

injustice, and yet there is if possible a greater than this greatest of evils (compare

Republic), in an unjust man not suffering retribution, what is that defence of which the

want will make a man truly ridiculous? Must not the defence be one which will avert the

greatest of human evils? And will not the worst of all defences be that with which a man

is unable to defend himself or his family or his friends? —and next will come that which

is unable to avert the next greatest evil; thirdly that which is unable to avert the third

greatest evil; and so of other evils. As is the greatness of evil so is the honour of being

able to avert them in their several degrees, and the disgrace of not being able to avert

them. Am I not right Callicles?

CALLICLES: Yes, quite right.

SOCRATES: Seeing then that there are these two evils, the doing injustice and the

suffering injustice—and we affirm that to do injustice is a greater, and to suffer injustice

a lesser evil—by what devices can a man succeed in obtaining the two advantages, the

one of not doing and the other of not suffering injustice? must he have the power, or

only the will to obtain them? I mean to ask whether a man will escape injustice if he has

only the will to escape, or must he have provided himself with the power?

CALLICLES: He must have provided himself with the power; that is clear.

SOCRATES: And what do you say of doing injustice? Is the will only sufficient, and will

that prevent him from doing injustice, or must he have provided himself with power and

art; and if he have not studied and practised, will he be unjust still? Surely you might say,

Callicles, whether you think that Polus and I were right in admitting the conclusion that

no one does wrong voluntarily, but that all do wrong against their will?

CALLICLES: Granted, Socrates, if you will only have done.

SOCRATES: Then, as would appear, power and art have to be provided in order that we

may do no injustice?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And what art will protect us from suffering injustice, if not wholly, yet as far

as possible? I want to know whether you agree with me; for I think that such an art is the

art of one who is either a ruler or even tyrant himself, or the equal and companion of

the ruling power.

CALLICLES: Well said, Socrates; and please to observe how ready I am to praise you

when you talk sense.

SOCRATES: Think and tell me whether you would approve of another view of mine: To

me every man appears to be most the friend of him who is most like to him—like to like,

as ancient sages say: Would you not agree to this?

CALLICLES: I should.

SOCRATES: But when the tyrant is rude and uneducated, he may be expected to fear any

one who is his superior in virtue, and will never be able to be perfectly friendly with him.

CALLICLES: That is true.

SOCRATES: Neither will he be the friend of any one who is greatly his inferior, for the

tyrant will despise him, and will never seriously regard him as a friend.

CALLICLES: That again is true.

SOCRATES: Then the only friend worth mentioning, whom the tyrant can have, will be

one who is of the same character, and has the same likes and dislikes, and is at the same

time willing to be subject and subservient to him; he is the man who will have power in

the state, and no one will injure him with impunity:—is not that so?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if a young man begins to ask how he may become great and

formidable, this would seem to be the way—he will accustom himself, from his youth

upward, to feel sorrow and joy on the same occasions as his master, and will contrive to

be as like him as possible?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And in this way he will have accomplished, as you and your friends would

say, the end of becoming a great man and not suffering injury?

CALLICLES: Very true.

SOCRATES: But will he also escape from doing injury? Must not the very opposite be

true,—if he is to be like the tyrant in his injustice, and to have influence with him? Will

he not rather contrive to do as much wrong as possible, and not be punished?

CALLICLES: True.

SOCRATES: And by the imitation of his master and by the power which he thus acquires

will not his soul become bad and corrupted, and will not this be the greatest evil to him?

CALLICLES: You always contrive somehow or other, Socrates, to invert everything: do

you not know that he who imitates the tyrant will, if he has a mind, kill him who does

not imitate him and take away his goods?

SOCRATES: Excellent Callicles, I am not deaf, and I have heard that a great many times

from you and from Polus and from nearly every man in the city, but I wish that you

would hear me too. I dare say that he will kill him if he has a mind—the bad man will kill

the good and true.

CALLICLES: And is not that just the provoking thing?

SOCRATES: Nay, not to a man of sense, as the argument shows: do you think that all our

cares should be directed to prolonging life to the uttermost, and to the study of those

arts which secure us from danger always; like that art of rhetoric which saves men in

courts of law, and which you advise me to cultivate?

CALLICLES: Yes, truly, and very good advice too.

SOCRATES: Well, my friend, but what do you think of swimming; is that an art of any

great pretensions?

CALLICLES: No, indeed.

SOCRATES: And yet surely swimming saves a man from death, and there are occasions

on which he must know how to swim. And if you despise the swimmers, I will tell you of

another and greater art, the art of the pilot, who not only saves the souls of men, but

also their bodies and properties from the extremity of danger, just like rhetoric. Yet his

art is modest and unpresuming: it has no airs or pretences of doing anything

extraordinary, and, in return for the same salvation which is given by the pleader,

demands only two obols, if he brings us from Aegina to Athens, or for the longer

voyage from Pontus or Egypt, at the utmost two drachmae, when he has saved, as I was

just now saying, the passenger and his wife and children and goods, and safely

disembarked them at the Piraeus,—this is the payment which he asks in return for so

great a boon; and he who is the master of the art, and has done all this, gets out and

walks about on the sea-shore by his ship in an unassuming way. For he is able to reflect

and is aware that he cannot tell which of his fellow-passengers he has benefited, and

which of them he has injured in not allowing them to be drowned. He knows that they

are just the same when he has disembarked them as when they embarked, and not a

whit better either in their bodies or in their souls; and he considers that if a man who is

afflicted by great and incurable bodily diseases is only to be pitied for having escaped,

and is in no way benefited by him in having been saved from drowning, much less he

who has great and incurable diseases, not of the body, but of the soul, which is the

more valuable part of him; neither is life worth having nor of any profit to the bad man,

whether he be delivered from the sea, or the law-courts, or any other devourer;—and so

he reflects that such a one had better not live, for he cannot live well. (Compare

Republic.)

And this is the reason why the pilot, although he is our saviour, is not usually conceited,

any more than the engineer, who is not at all behind either the general, or the pilot, or

any one else, in his saving power, for he sometimes saves whole cities. Is there any

comparison between him and the pleader? And if he were to talk, Callicles, in your

grandiose style, he would bury you under a mountain of words, declaring and insisting

that we ought all of us to be engine-makers, and that no other profession is worth

thinking about; he would have plenty to say. Nevertheless you despise him and his art,

and sneeringly call him an engine-maker, and you will not allow your daughters to

marry his son, or marry your son to his daughters. And yet, on your principle, what

justice or reason is there in your refusal? What right have you to despise the enginemaker,

and the others whom I was just now mentioning? I know that you will say, 'I am

better, and better born.' But if the better is not what I say, and virtue consists only in a

man saving himself and his, whatever may be his character, then your censure of the

engine-maker, and of the physician, and of the other arts of salvation, is ridiculous. O my

friend! I want you to see that the noble and the good may possibly be something

different from saving and being saved:—May not he who is truly a man cease to care

about living a certain time?—he knows, as women say, that no man can escape fate, and

therefore he is not fond of life; he leaves all that with God, and considers in what way he

can best spend his appointed term;—whether by assimilating himself to the constitution

under which he lives, as you at this moment have to consider how you may become as

like as possible to the Athenian people, if you mean to be in their good graces, and to

have power in the state; whereas I want you to think and see whether this is for the

interest of either of us;—I would not have us risk that which is dearest on the acquisition

of this power, like the Thessalian enchantresses, who, as they say, bring down the moon

from heaven at the risk of their own perdition. But if you suppose that any man will

show you the art of becoming great in the city, and yet not conforming yourself to the

ways of the city, whether for better or worse, then I can only say that you are mistaken,

Callides; for he who would deserve to be the true natural friend of the Athenian Demus,

aye, or of Pyrilampes' darling who is called after them, must be by nature like them, and

not an imitator only. He, then, who will make you most like them, will make you as you

desire, a statesman and orator: for every man is pleased when he is spoken to in his own

language and spirit, and dislikes any other. But perhaps you, sweet Callicles, may be of

another mind. What do you say?

CALLICLES: Somehow or other your words, Socrates, always appear to me to be good

words; and yet, like the rest of the world, I am not quite convinced by them. (Compare

Symp.: 1 Alcib.)

SOCRATES: The reason is, Callicles, that the love of Demus which abides in your soul is

an adversary to me; but I dare say that if we recur to these same matters, and consider

them more thoroughly, you may be convinced for all that. Please, then, to remember

that there are two processes of training all things, including body and soul; in the one,

as we said, we treat them with a view to pleasure, and in the other with a view to the

highest good, and then we do not indulge but resist them: was not that the distinction

which we drew?

CALLICLES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And the one which had pleasure in view was just a vulgar flattery:—was not

that another of our conclusions?

CALLICLES: Be it so, if you will have it.

SOCRATES: And the other had in view the greatest improvement of that which was

ministered to, whether body or soul?

CALLICLES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: And must we not have the same end in view in the treatment of our city and

citizens? Must we not try and make them as good as possible? For we have already

discovered that there is no use in imparting to them any other good, unless the mind of

those who are to have the good, whether money, or office, or any other sort of power,

be gentle and good. Shall we say that?

CALLICLES: Yes, certainly, if you like.

SOCRATES: Well, then, if you and I, Callicles, were intending to set about some public

business, and were advising one another to undertake buildings, such as walls, docks or

temples of the largest size, ought we not to examine ourselves, first, as to whether we

know or do not know the art of building, and who taught us?—would not that be

necessary, Callicles?

CALLICLES: True.

SOCRATES: In the second place, we should have to consider whether we had ever

constructed any private house, either of our own or for our friends, and whether this

building of ours was a success or not; and if upon consideration we found that we had

had good and eminent masters, and had been successful in constructing many fine

buildings, not only with their assistance, but without them, by our own unaided skill—in

that case prudence would not dissuade us from proceeding to the construction of public

works. But if we had no master to show, and only a number of worthless buildings or

none at all, then, surely, it would be ridiculous in us to attempt public works, or to advise

one another to undertake them. Is not this true?

CALLICLES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And does not the same hold in all other cases? If you and I were physicians,

and were advising one another that we were competent to practise as state-physicians,

should I not ask about you, and would you not ask about me, Well, but how about

Socrates himself, has he good health? and was any one else ever known to be cured by

him, whether slave or freeman? And I should make the same enquiries about you. And if

we arrived at the conclusion that no one, whether citizen or stranger, man or woman,

had ever been any the better for the medical skill of either of us, then, by Heaven,

Callicles, what an absurdity to think that we or any human being should be so silly as to

set up as state-physicians and advise others like ourselves to do the same, without

having first practised in private, whether successfully or not, and acquired experience of

the art! Is not this, as they say, to begin with the big jar when you are learning the

potter's art; which is a foolish thing?

CALLICLES: True.

SOCRATES: And now, my friend, as you are already beginning to be a public character,

and are admonishing and reproaching me for not being one, suppose that we ask a few

questions of one another. Tell me, then, Callicles, how about making any of the citizens

better? Was there ever a man who was once vicious, or unjust, or intemperate, or

foolish, and became by the help of Callicles good and noble? Was there ever such a

man, whether citizen or stranger, slave or freeman? Tell me, Callicles, if a person were to

ask these questions of you, what would you answer? Whom would you say that you had

improved by your conversation? There may have been good deeds of this sort which

were done by you as a private person, before you came forward in public. Why will you

not answer?

CALLICLES: You are contentious, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Nay, I ask you, not from a love of contention, but because I really want to

know in what way you think that affairs should be administered among us—whether,

when you come to the administration of them, you have any other aim but the

improvement of the citizens? Have we not already admitted many times over that such

is the duty of a public man? Nay, we have surely said so; for if you will not answer for

yourself I must answer for you. But if this is what the good man ought to effect for the

benefit of his own state, allow me to recall to you the names of those whom you were

just now mentioning, Pericles, and Cimon, and Miltiades, and Themistocles, and ask

whether you still think that they were good citizens.

CALLICLES: I do.

SOCRATES: But if they were good, then clearly each of them must have made the

citizens better instead of worse?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And, therefore, when Pericles first began to speak in the assembly, the

Athenians were not so good as when he spoke last?

CALLICLES: Very likely.

SOCRATES: Nay, my friend, 'likely' is not the word; for if he was a good citizen, the

inference is certain.

CALLICLES: And what difference does that make?

SOCRATES: None; only I should like further to know whether the Athenians are

supposed to have been made better by Pericles, or, on the contrary, to have been

corrupted by him; for I hear that he was the first who gave the people pay, and made

them idle and cowardly, and encouraged them in the love of talk and money.

CALLICLES: You heard that, Socrates, from the laconising set who bruise their ears.

SOCRATES: But what I am going to tell you now is not mere hearsay, but well known

both to you and me: that at first, Pericles was glorious and his character unimpeached

by any verdict of the Athenians—this was during the time when they were not so

good—yet afterwards, when they had been made good and gentle by him, at the very

end of his life they convicted him of theft, and almost put him to death, clearly under

the notion that he was a malefactor.

CALLICLES: Well, but how does that prove Pericles' badness?

SOCRATES: Why, surely you would say that he was a bad manager of asses or horses or

oxen, who had received them originally neither kicking nor butting nor biting him, and

implanted in them all these savage tricks? Would he not be a bad manager of any

animals who received them gentle, and made them fiercer than they were when he

received them? What do you say?

CALLICLES: I will do you the favour of saying 'yes.'

SOCRATES: And will you also do me the favour of saying whether man is an animal?

CALLICLES: Certainly he is.

SOCRATES: And was not Pericles a shepherd of men?

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if he was a good political shepherd, ought not the animals who were his

subjects, as we were just now acknowledging, to have become more just, and not more

unjust?

CALLICLES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: And are not just men gentle, as Homer says?—or are you of another mind?

CALLICLES: I agree.

SOCRATES: And yet he really did make them more savage than he received them, and

their savageness was shown towards himself; which he must have been very far from

desiring.

CALLICLES: Do you want me to agree with you?

SOCRATES: Yes, if I seem to you to speak the truth.

CALLICLES: Granted then.

SOCRATES: And if they were more savage, must they not have been more unjust and

inferior?

CALLICLES: Granted again.

SOCRATES: Then upon this view, Pericles was not a good statesman?

CALLICLES: That is, upon your view.

SOCRATES: Nay, the view is yours, after what you have admitted. Take the case of Cimon

again. Did not the very persons whom he was serving ostracize him, in order that they

might not hear his voice for ten years? and they did just the same to Themistocles,

adding the penalty of exile; and they voted that Miltiades, the hero of Marathon, should

be thrown into the pit of death, and he was only saved by the Prytanis. And yet, if they

had been really good men, as you say, these things would never have happened to

them. For the good charioteers are not those who at first keep their place, and then,

when they have broken-in their horses, and themselves become better charioteers, are

thrown out—that is not the way either in charioteering or in any profession.—What do

you think?

CALLICLES: I should think not.

SOCRATES: Well, but if so, the truth is as I have said already, that in the Athenian State

no one has ever shown himself to be a good statesman— you admitted that this was

true of our present statesmen, but not true of former ones, and you preferred them to

the others; yet they have turned out to be no better than our present ones; and

therefore, if they were rhetoricians, they did not use the true art of rhetoric or of flattery,

or they would not have fallen out of favour.

CALLICLES: But surely, Socrates, no living man ever came near any one of them in his

performances.

SOCRATES: O, my dear friend, I say nothing against them regarded as the serving-men

of the State; and I do think that they were certainly more serviceable than those who are

living now, and better able to gratify the wishes of the State; but as to transforming

those desires and not allowing them to have their way, and using the powers which they

had, whether of persuasion or of force, in the improvement of their fellow citizens, which

is the prime object of the truly good citizen, I do not see that in these respects they

were a whit superior to our present statesmen, although I do admit that they were more

clever at providing ships and walls and docks, and all that. You and I have a ridiculous

way, for during the whole time that we are arguing, we are always going round and

round to the same point, and constantly misunderstanding one another. If I am not

mistaken, you have admitted and acknowledged more than once, that there are two

kinds of operations which have to do with the body, and two which have to do with the

soul: one of the two is ministerial, and if our bodies are hungry provides food for them,

and if they are thirsty gives them drink, or if they are cold supplies them with garments,

blankets, shoes, and all that they crave. I use the same images as before intentionally, in

order that you may understand me the better. The purveyor of the articles may provide

them either wholesale or retail, or he may be the maker of any of them,— the baker, or

the cook, or the weaver, or the shoemaker, or the currier; and in so doing, being such as

he is, he is naturally supposed by himself and every one to minister to the body. For

none of them know that there is another art—an art of gymnastic and medicine which is

the true minister of the body, and ought to be the mistress of all the rest, and to use

their results according to the knowledge which she has and they have not, of the real

good or bad effects of meats and drinks on the body. All other arts which have to do

with the body are servile and menial and illiberal; and gymnastic and medicine are, as

they ought to be, their mistresses. Now, when I say that all this is equally true of the

soul, you seem at first to know and understand and assent to my words, and then a little

while afterwards you come repeating, Has not the State had good and noble citizens?

and when I ask you who they are, you reply, seemingly quite in earnest, as if I had asked,

Who are or have been good trainers?—and you had replied, Thearion, the baker,

Mithoecus, who wrote the Sicilian cookery-book, Sarambus, the vintner: these are

ministers of the body, first-rate in their art; for the first makes admirable loaves, the

second excellent dishes, and the third capital wine;—to me these appear to be the exact

parallel of the statesmen whom you mention. Now you would not be altogether pleased

if I said to you, My friend, you know nothing of gymnastics; those of whom you are

speaking to me are only the ministers and purveyors of luxury, who have no good or

noble notions of their art, and may very likely be filling and fattening men's bodies and

gaining their approval, although the result is that they lose their original flesh in the

long run, and become thinner than they were before; and yet they, in their simplicity,

will not attribute their diseases and loss of flesh to their entertainers; but when in after

years the unhealthy surfeit brings the attendant penalty of disease, he who happens to

be near them at the time, and offers them advice, is accused and blamed by them, and if

they could they would do him some harm; while they proceed to eulogize the men who

have been the real authors of the mischief. And that, Callicles, is just what you are now

doing. You praise the men who feasted the citizens and satisfied their desires, and

people say that they have made the city great, not seeing that the swollen and ulcerated

condition of the State is to be attributed to these elder statesmen; for they have filled

the city full of harbours and docks and walls and revenues and all that, and have left no

room for justice and temperance. And when the crisis of the disorder comes, the people

will blame the advisers of the hour, and applaud Themistocles and Cimon and Pericles,

who are the real authors of their calamities; and if you are not careful they may assail

you and my friend Alcibiades, when they are losing not only their new acquisitions, but

also their original possessions; not that you are the authors of these misfortunes of

theirs, although you may perhaps be accessories to them. A great piece of work is

always being made, as I see and am told, now as of old; about our statesmen. When the

State treats any of them as malefactors, I observe that there is a great uproar and

indignation at the supposed wrong which is done to them; 'after all their many services

to the State, that they should unjustly perish,'—so the tale runs. But the cry is all a lie; for

no statesman ever could be unjustly put to death by the city of which he is the head.

The case of the professed statesman is, I believe, very much like that of the professed

sophist; for the sophists, although they are wise men, are nevertheless guilty of a

strange piece of folly; professing to be teachers of virtue, they will often accuse their

disciples of wronging them, and defrauding them of their pay, and showing no gratitude

for their services. Yet what can be more absurd than that men who have become just

and good, and whose injustice has been taken away from them, and who have had

justice implanted in them by their teachers, should act unjustly by reason of the injustice

which is not in them? Can anything be more irrational, my friends, than this? You,

Callicles, compel me to be a mob-orator, because you will not answer.

CALLICLES: And you are the man who cannot speak unless there is some one to answer?

SOCRATES: I suppose that I can; just now, at any rate, the speeches which I am making

are long enough because you refuse to answer me. But I adjure you by the god of

friendship, my good sir, do tell me whether there does not appear to you to be a great

inconsistency in saying that you have made a man good, and then blaming him for

being bad?

CALLICLES: Yes, it appears so to me.

SOCRATES: Do you never hear our professors of education speaking in this inconsistent

manner?

CALLICLES: Yes, but why talk of men who are good for nothing?

SOCRATES: I would rather say, why talk of men who profess to be rulers, and declare

that they are devoted to the improvement of the city, and nevertheless upon occasion

declaim against the utter vileness of the city: —do you think that there is any difference

between one and the other? My good friend, the sophist and the rhetorician, as I was

saying to Polus, are the same, or nearly the same; but you ignorantly fancy that rhetoric

is a perfect thing, and sophistry a thing to be despised; whereas the truth is, that

sophistry is as much superior to rhetoric as legislation is to the practice of law, or

gymnastic to medicine. The orators and sophists, as I am inclined to think, are the only

class who cannot complain of the mischief ensuing to themselves from that which they

teach others, without in the same breath accusing themselves of having done no good

to those whom they profess to benefit. Is not this a fact?

CALLICLES: Certainly it is.

SOCRATES: If they were right in saying that they make men better, then they are the

only class who can afford to leave their remuneration to those who have been benefited

by them. Whereas if a man has been benefited in any other way, if, for example, he has

been taught to run by a trainer, he might possibly defraud him of his pay, if the trainer

left the matter to him, and made no agreement with him that he should receive money

as soon as he had given him the utmost speed; for not because of any deficiency of

speed do men act unjustly, but by reason of injustice.

CALLICLES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And he who removes injustice can be in no danger of being treated unjustly:

he alone can safely leave the honorarium to his pupils, if he be really able to make them

good—am I not right? (Compare Protag.)

CALLICLES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then we have found the reason why there is no dishonour in a man

receiving pay who is called in to advise about building or any other art?

CALLICLES: Yes, we have found the reason.

SOCRATES: But when the point is, how a man may become best himself, and best

govern his family and state, then to say that you will give no advice gratis is held to be

dishonourable?

CALLICLES: True.

SOCRATES: And why? Because only such benefits call forth a desire to requite them, and

there is evidence that a benefit has been conferred when the benefactor receives a

return; otherwise not. Is this true?

CALLICLES: It is.

SOCRATES: Then to which service of the State do you invite me? determine for me. Am I

to be the physician of the State who will strive and struggle to make the Athenians as

good as possible; or am I to be the servant and flatterer of the State? Speak out, my

good friend, freely and fairly as you did at first and ought to do again, and tell me your

entire mind.

CALLICLES: I say then that you should be the servant of the State.

SOCRATES: The flatterer? well, sir, that is a noble invitation.

CALLICLES: The Mysian, Socrates, or what you please. For if you refuse, the

consequences will be—

SOCRATES: Do not repeat the old story—that he who likes will kill me and get my

money; for then I shall have to repeat the old answer, that he will be a bad man and will

kill the good, and that the money will be of no use to him, but that he will wrongly use

that which he wrongly took, and if wrongly, basely, and if basely, hurtfully.

CALLICLES: How confident you are, Socrates, that you will never come to harm! you

seem to think that you are living in another country, and can never be brought into a

court of justice, as you very likely may be brought by some miserable and mean person.

SOCRATES: Then I must indeed be a fool, Callicles, if I do not know that in the Athenian

State any man may suffer anything. And if I am brought to trial and incur the dangers of

which you speak, he will be a villain who brings me to trial—of that I am very sure, for

no good man would accuse the innocent. Nor shall I be surprised if I am put to death.

Shall I tell you why I anticipate this?

CALLICLES: By all means.

SOCRATES: I think that I am the only or almost the only Athenian living who practises

the true art of politics; I am the only politician of my time. Now, seeing that when I

speak my words are not uttered with any view of gaining favour, and that I look to what

is best and not to what is most pleasant, having no mind to use those arts and graces

which you recommend, I shall have nothing to say in the justice court. And you might

argue with me, as I was arguing with Polus:—I shall be tried just as a physician would be

tried in a court of little boys at the indictment of the cook. What would he reply under

such circumstances, if some one were to accuse him, saying, 'O my boys, many evil

things has this man done to you: he is the death of you, especially of the younger ones

among you, cutting and burning and starving and suffocating you, until you know not

what to do; he gives you the bitterest potions, and compels you to hunger and thirst.

How unlike the variety of meats and sweets on which I feasted you!' What do you

suppose that the physician would be able to reply when he found himself in such a

predicament? If he told the truth he could only say, 'All these evil things, my boys, I did

for your health,' and then would there not just be a clamour among a jury like that? How

they would cry out!

CALLICLES: I dare say.

SOCRATES: Would he not be utterly at a loss for a reply?

CALLICLES: He certainly would.

SOCRATES: And I too shall be treated in the same way, as I well know, if I am brought

before the court. For I shall not be able to rehearse to the people the pleasures which I

have procured for them, and which, although I am not disposed to envy either the

procurers or enjoyers of them, are deemed by them to be benefits and advantages. And

if any one says that I corrupt young men, and perplex their minds, or that I speak evil of

old men, and use bitter words towards them, whether in private or public, it is useless

for me to reply, as I truly might:—'All this I do for the sake of justice, and with a view to

your interest, my judges, and to nothing else.' And therefore there is no saying what

may happen to me.

CALLICLES: And do you think, Socrates, that a man who is thus defenceless is in a good

position?

SOCRATES: Yes, Callicles, if he have that defence, which as you have often

acknowledged he should have—if he be his own defence, and have never said or done

anything wrong, either in respect of gods or men; and this has been repeatedly

acknowledged by us to be the best sort of defence. And if any one could convict me of

inability to defend myself or others after this sort, I should blush for shame, whether I

was convicted before many, or before a few, or by myself alone; and if I died from want

of ability to do so, that would indeed grieve me. But if I died because I have no powers

of flattery or rhetoric, I am very sure that you would not find me repining at death. For

no man who is not an utter fool and coward is afraid of death itself, but he is afraid of

doing wrong. For to go to the world below having one's soul full of injustice is the last

and worst of all evils. And in proof of what I say, if you have no objection, I should like to

tell you a story.

CALLICLES: Very well, proceed; and then we shall have done.

SOCRATES: Listen, then, as story-tellers say, to a very pretty tale, which I dare say that

you may be disposed to regard as a fable only, but which, as I believe, is a true tale, for I

mean to speak the truth. Homer tells us (Il.), how Zeus and Poseidon and Pluto divided

the empire which they inherited from their father. Now in the days of Cronos there

existed a law respecting the destiny of man, which has always been, and still continues

to be in Heaven,—that he who has lived all his life in justice and holiness shall go, when

he is dead, to the Islands of the Blessed, and dwell there in perfect happiness out of the

reach of evil; but that he who has lived unjustly and impiously shall go to the house of

vengeance and punishment, which is called Tartarus. And in the time of Cronos, and

even quite lately in the reign of Zeus, the judgment was given on the very day on which

the men were to die; the judges were alive, and the men were alive; and the

consequence was that the judgments were not well given. Then Pluto and the

authorities from the Islands of the Blessed came to Zeus, and said that the souls found

their way to the wrong places. Zeus said: 'I shall put a stop to this; the judgments are not

well given, because the persons who are judged have their clothes on, for they are alive;

and there are many who, having evil souls, are apparelled in fair bodies, or encased in

wealth or rank, and, when the day of judgment arrives, numerous witnesses come

forward and testify on their behalf that they have lived righteously. The judges are awed

by them, and they themselves too have their clothes on when judging; their eyes and

ears and their whole bodies are interposed as a veil before their own souls. All this is a

hindrance to them; there are the clothes of the judges and the clothes of the judged.—

What is to be done? I will tell you:—In the first place, I will deprive men of the

foreknowledge of death, which they possess at present: this power which they have

Prometheus has already received my orders to take from them: in the second place, they

shall be entirely stripped before they are judged, for they shall be judged when they are

dead; and the judge too shall be naked, that is to say, dead—he with his naked soul

shall pierce into the other naked souls; and they shall die suddenly and be deprived of

all their kindred, and leave their brave attire strewn upon the earth—conducted in this

manner, the judgment will be just. I knew all about the matter before any of you, and

therefore I have made my sons judges; two from Asia, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and

one from Europe, Aeacus. And these, when they are dead, shall give judgment in the

meadow at the parting of the ways, whence the two roads lead, one to the Islands of the

Blessed, and the other to Tartarus. Rhadamanthus shall judge those who come from

Asia, and Aeacus those who come from Europe. And to Minos I shall give the primacy,

and he shall hold a court of appeal, in case either of the two others are in any doubt:—

then the judgment respecting the last journey of men will be as just as possible.'

From this tale, Callicles, which I have heard and believe, I draw the following

inferences:—Death, if I am right, is in the first place the separation from one another of

two things, soul and body; nothing else. And after they are separated they retain their

several natures, as in life; the body keeps the same habit, and the results of treatment or

accident are distinctly visible in it: for example, he who by nature or training or both,

was a tall man while he was alive, will remain as he was, after he is dead; and the fat man

will remain fat; and so on; and the dead man, who in life had a fancy to have flowing

hair, will have flowing hair. And if he was marked with the whip and had the prints of the

scourge, or of wounds in him when he was alive, you might see the same in the dead

body; and if his limbs were broken or misshapen when he was alive, the same

appearance would be visible in the dead. And in a word, whatever was the habit of the

body during life would be distinguishable after death, either perfectly, or in a great

measure and for a certain time. And I should imagine that this is equally true of the soul,

Callicles; when a man is stripped of the body, all the natural or acquired affections of the

soul are laid open to view.— And when they come to the judge, as those from Asia

come to Rhadamanthus, he places them near him and inspects them quite impartially,

not knowing whose the soul is: perhaps he may lay hands on the soul of the great king,

or of some other king or potentate, who has no soundness in him, but his soul is

marked with the whip, and is full of the prints and scars of perjuries and crimes with

which each action has stained him, and he is all crooked with falsehood and imposture,

and has no straightness, because he has lived without truth. Him Rhadamanthus

beholds, full of all deformity and disproportion, which is caused by licence and luxury

and insolence and incontinence, and despatches him ignominiously to his prison, and

there he undergoes the punishment which he deserves.

Now the proper office of punishment is twofold: he who is rightly punished ought either

to become better and profit by it, or he ought to be made an example to his fellows,

that they may see what he suffers, and fear and become better. Those who are improved

when they are punished by gods and men, are those whose sins are curable; and they

are improved, as in this world so also in another, by pain and suffering; for there is no

other way in which they can be delivered from their evil. But they who have been guilty

of the worst crimes, and are incurable by reason of their crimes, are made examples; for,

as they are incurable, the time has passed at which they can receive any benefit. They

get no good themselves, but others get good when they behold them enduring for ever

the most terrible and painful and fearful sufferings as the penalty of their sins—there

they are, hanging up as examples, in the prison-house of the world below, a spectacle

and a warning to all unrighteous men who come thither. And among them, as I

confidently affirm, will be found Archelaus, if Polus truly reports of him, and any other

tyrant who is like him. Of these fearful examples, most, as I believe, are taken from the

class of tyrants and kings and potentates and public men, for they are the authors of the

greatest and most impious crimes, because they have the power. And Homer witnesses

to the truth of this; for they are always kings and potentates whom he has described as

suffering everlasting punishment in the world below: such were Tantalus and Sisyphus

and Tityus. But no one ever described Thersites, or any private person who was a villain,

as suffering everlasting punishment, or as incurable. For to commit the worst crimes, as I

am inclined to think, was not in his power, and he was happier than those who had the

power. No, Callicles, the very bad men come from the class of those who have power

(compare Republic). And yet in that very class there may arise good men, and worthy of

all admiration they are, for where there is great power to do wrong, to live and to die

justly is a hard thing, and greatly to be praised, and few there are who attain to this.

Such good and true men, however, there have been, and will be again, at Athens and in

other states, who have fulfilled their trust righteously; and there is one who is quite

famous all over Hellas, Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus. But, in general, great men are

also bad, my friend.

As I was saying, Rhadamanthus, when he gets a soul of the bad kind, knows nothing

about him, neither who he is, nor who his parents are; he knows only that he has got

hold of a villain; and seeing this, he stamps him as curable or incurable, and sends him

away to Tartarus, whither he goes and receives his proper recompense. Or, again, he

looks with admiration on the soul of some just one who has lived in holiness and truth;

he may have been a private man or not; and I should say, Callicles, that he is most likely

to have been a philosopher who has done his own work, and not troubled himself with

the doings of other men in his lifetime; him Rhadamanthus sends to the Islands of the

Blessed. Aeacus does the same; and they both have sceptres, and judge; but Minos

alone has a golden sceptre and is seated looking on, as Odysseus in Homer declares

that he saw him:

'Holding a sceptre of gold, and giving laws to the dead.'

Now I, Callicles, am persuaded of the truth of these things, and I consider how I shall

present my soul whole and undefiled before the judge in that day. Renouncing the

honours at which the world aims, I desire only to know the truth, and to live as well as I

can, and, when I die, to die as well as I can. And, to the utmost of my power, I exhort all

other men to do the same. And, in return for your exhortation of me, I exhort you also

to take part in the great combat, which is the combat of life, and greater than every

other earthly conflict. And I retort your reproach of me, and say, that you will not be

able to help yourself when the day of trial and judgment, of which I was speaking,

comes upon you; you will go before the judge, the son of Aegina, and, when he has got

you in his grip and is carrying you off, you will gape and your head will swim round, just

as mine would in the courts of this world, and very likely some one will shamefully box

you on the ears, and put upon you any sort of insult.

Perhaps this may appear to you to be only an old wife's tale, which you will contemn.

And there might be reason in your contemning such tales, if by searching we could find

out anything better or truer: but now you see that you and Polus and Gorgias, who are

the three wisest of the Greeks of our day, are not able to show that we ought to live any

life which does not profit in another world as well as in this. And of all that has been

said, nothing remains unshaken but the saying, that to do injustice is more to be

avoided than to suffer injustice, and that the reality and not the appearance of virtue is

to be followed above all things, as well in public as in private life; and that when any one

has been wrong in anything, he is to be chastised, and that the next best thing to a man

being just is that he should become just, and be chastised and punished; also that he

should avoid all flattery of himself as well as of others, of the few or of the many: and

rhetoric and any other art should be used by him, and all his actions should be done

always, with a view to justice.

Follow me then, and I will lead you where you will be happy in life and after death, as

the argument shows. And never mind if some one despises you as a fool, and insults

you, if he has a mind; let him strike you, by Zeus, and do you be of good cheer, and do

not mind the insulting blow, for you will never come to any harm in the practice of

virtue, if you are a really good and true man. When we have practised virtue together,

we will apply ourselves to politics, if that seems desirable, or we will advise about

whatever else may seem good to us, for we shall be better able to judge then. In our

present condition we ought not to give ourselves airs, for even on the most important

subjects we are always changing our minds; so utterly stupid are we! Let us, then, take

the argument as our guide, which has revealed to us that the best way of life is to

practise justice and every virtue in life and death. This way let us go; and in this exhort

all men to follow, not in the way to which you trust and in which you exhort me to

follow you; for that way, Callicles, is nothing worth.

THE END

PROTAGORAS

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator of the Dialogue to his

Companion. Hippocrates, Alcibiades and Critias. Protagoras, Hippias and Prodicus

(Sophists). Callias, a wealthy Athenian.

SCENE: The House of Callias.

COMPANION: Where do you come from, Socrates? And yet I need hardly ask the

question, for I know that you have been in chase of the fair Alcibiades. I saw him the day

before yesterday; and he had got a beard like a man,—and he is a man, as I may tell you

in your ear. But I thought that he was still very charming.

SOCRATES: What of his beard? Are you not of Homer's opinion, who says

'Youth is most charming when the beard first appears'?

And that is now the charm of Alcibiades.

COMPANION: Well, and how do matters proceed? Have you been visiting him, and was

he gracious to you?

SOCRATES: Yes, I thought that he was very gracious; and especially to-day, for I have

just come from him, and he has been helping me in an argument. But shall I tell you a

strange thing? I paid no attention to him, and several times I quite forgot that he was

present.

COMPANION: What is the meaning of this? Has anything happened between you and

him? For surely you cannot have discovered a fairer love than he is; certainly not in this

city of Athens.

SOCRATES: Yes, much fairer.

COMPANION: What do you mean—a citizen or a foreigner?

SOCRATES: A foreigner.

COMPANION: Of what country?

SOCRATES: Of Abdera.

COMPANION: And is this stranger really in your opinion a fairer love than the son of

Cleinias?

SOCRATES: And is not the wiser always the fairer, sweet friend?

COMPANION: But have you really met, Socrates, with some wise one?

SOCRATES: Say rather, with the wisest of all living men, if you are willing to accord that

title to Protagoras.

COMPANION: What! Is Protagoras in Athens?

SOCRATES: Yes; he has been here two days.

COMPANION: And do you just come from an interview with him?

SOCRATES: Yes; and I have heard and said many things.

COMPANION: Then, if you have no engagement, suppose that you sit down and tell me

what passed, and my attendant here shall give up his place to you.

SOCRATES: To be sure; and I shall be grateful to you for listening.

COMPANION: Thank you, too, for telling us.

SOCRATES: That is thank you twice over. Listen then:—

Last night, or rather very early this morning, Hippocrates, the son of Apollodorus and

the brother of Phason, gave a tremendous thump with his staff at my door; some one

opened to him, and he came rushing in and bawled out: Socrates, are you awake or

asleep?

I knew his voice, and said: Hippocrates, is that you? and do you bring any news?

Good news, he said; nothing but good.

Delightful, I said; but what is the news? and why have you come hither at this unearthly

hour?

He drew nearer to me and said: Protagoras is come.

Yes, I replied; he came two days ago: have you only just heard of his arrival?

Yes, by the gods, he said; but not until yesterday evening.

At the same time he felt for the truckle-bed, and sat down at my feet, and then he said:

Yesterday quite late in the evening, on my return from Oenoe whither I had gone in

pursuit of my runaway slave Satyrus, as I meant to have told you, if some other matter

had not come in the way;—on my return, when we had done supper and were about to

retire to rest, my brother said to me: Protagoras is come. I was going to you at once, and

then I thought that the night was far spent. But the moment sleep left me after my

fatigue, I got up and came hither direct.

I, who knew the very courageous madness of the man, said: What is the matter? Has

Protagoras robbed you of anything?

He replied, laughing: Yes, indeed he has, Socrates, of the wisdom which he keeps from

me.

But, surely, I said, if you give him money, and make friends with him, he will make you as

wise as he is himself.

Would to heaven, he replied, that this were the case! He might take all that I have, and

all that my friends have, if he pleased. But that is why I have come to you now, in order

that you may speak to him on my behalf; for I am young, and also I have never seen nor

heard him; (when he visited Athens before I was but a child;) and all men praise him,

Socrates; he is reputed to be the most accomplished of speakers. There is no reason why

we should not go to him at once, and then we shall find him at home. He lodges, as I

hear, with Callias the son of Hipponicus: let us start.

I replied: Not yet, my good friend; the hour is too early. But let us rise and take a turn in

the court and wait about there until day-break; when the day breaks, then we will go.

For Protagoras is generally at home, and we shall be sure to find him; never fear.

Upon this we got up and walked about in the court, and I thought that I would make

trial of the strength of his resolution. So I examined him and put questions to him. Tell

me, Hippocrates, I said, as you are going to Protagoras, and will be paying your money

to him, what is he to whom you are going? and what will he make of you? If, for

example, you had thought of going to Hippocrates of Cos, the Asclepiad, and were

about to give him your money, and some one had said to you: You are paying money to

your namesake Hippocrates, O Hippocrates; tell me, what is he that you give him

money? how would you have answered?

I should say, he replied, that I gave money to him as a physician.

And what will he make of you?

A physician, he said.

And if you were resolved to go to Polycleitus the Argive, or Pheidias the Athenian, and

were intending to give them money, and some one had asked you: What are Polycleitus

and Pheidias? and why do you give them this money?—how would you have answered?

I should have answered, that they were statuaries.

And what will they make of you?

A statuary, of course.

Well now, I said, you and I are going to Protagoras, and we are ready to pay him money

on your behalf. If our own means are sufficient, and we can gain him with these, we shall

be only too glad; but if not, then we are to spend the money of your friends as well.

Now suppose, that while we are thus enthusiastically pursuing our object some one

were to say to us: Tell me, Socrates, and you Hippocrates, what is Protagoras, and why

are you going to pay him money,—how should we answer? I know that Pheidias is a

sculptor, and that Homer is a poet; but what appellation is given to Protagoras? how is

he designated?

They call him a Sophist, Socrates, he replied.

Then we are going to pay our money to him in the character of a Sophist?

Certainly.

But suppose a person were to ask this further question: And how about yourself? What

will Protagoras make of you, if you go to see him?

He answered, with a blush upon his face (for the day was just beginning to dawn, so that

I could see him): Unless this differs in some way from the former instances, I suppose

that he will make a Sophist of me.

By the gods, I said, and are you not ashamed at having to appear before the Hellenes in

the character of a Sophist?

Indeed, Socrates, to confess the truth, I am.

But you should not assume, Hippocrates, that the instruction of Protagoras is of this

nature: may you not learn of him in the same way that you learned the arts of the

grammarian, or musician, or trainer, not with the view of making any of them a

profession, but only as a part of education, and because a private gentleman and

freeman ought to know them?

Just so, he said; and that, in my opinion, is a far truer account of the teaching of

Protagoras.

I said: I wonder whether you know what you are doing?

And what am I doing?

You are going to commit your soul to the care of a man whom you call a Sophist. And

yet I hardly think that you know what a Sophist is; and if not, then you do not even

know to whom you are committing your soul and whether the thing to which you

commit yourself be good or evil.

I certainly think that I do know, he replied.

Then tell me, what do you imagine that he is?

I take him to be one who knows wise things, he replied, as his name implies.

And might you not, I said, affirm this of the painter and of the carpenter also: Do not

they, too, know wise things? But suppose a person were to ask us: In what are the

painters wise? We should answer: In what relates to the making of likenesses, and

similarly of other things. And if he were further to ask: What is the wisdom of the

Sophist, and what is the manufacture over which he presides?—how should we answer

him?

How should we answer him, Socrates? What other answer could there be but that he

presides over the art which makes men eloquent?

Yes, I replied, that is very likely true, but not enough; for in the answer a further question

is involved: Of what does the Sophist make a man talk eloquently? The player on the

lyre may be supposed to make a man talk eloquently about that which he makes him

understand, that is about playing the lyre. Is not that true?

Yes.

Then about what does the Sophist make him eloquent? Must not he make him eloquent

in that which he understands?

Yes, that may be assumed.

And what is that which the Sophist knows and makes his disciple know?

Indeed, he said, I cannot tell.

Then I proceeded to say: Well, but are you aware of the danger which you are incurring?

If you were going to commit your body to some one, who might do good or harm to it,

would you not carefully consider and ask the opinion of your friends and kindred, and

deliberate many days as to whether you should give him the care of your body? But

when the soul is in question, which you hold to be of far more value than the body, and

upon the good or evil of which depends the well-being of your all,—about this you

never consulted either with your father or with your brother or with any one of us who

are your companions. But no sooner does this foreigner appear, than you instantly

commit your soul to his keeping. In the evening, as you say, you hear of him, and in the

morning you go to him, never deliberating or taking the opinion of any one as to

whether you ought to intrust yourself to him or not;—you have quite made up your

mind that you will at all hazards be a pupil of Protagoras, and are prepared to expend all

the property of yourself and of your friends in carrying out at any price this

determination, although, as you admit, you do not know him, and have never spoken

with him: and you call him a Sophist, but are manifestly ignorant of what a Sophist is;

and yet you are going to commit yourself to his keeping.

When he heard me say this, he replied: No other inference, Socrates, can be drawn from

your words.

I proceeded: Is not a Sophist, Hippocrates, one who deals wholesale or retail in the food

of the soul? To me that appears to be his nature.

And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul?

Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul; and we must take care, my friend, that

the Sophist does not deceive us when he praises what he sells, like the dealers

wholesale or retail who sell the food of the body; for they praise indiscriminately all their

goods, without knowing what are really beneficial or hurtful: neither do their customers

know, with the exception of any trainer or physician who may happen to buy of them. In

like manner those who carry about the wares of knowledge, and make the round of the

cities, and sell or retail them to any customer who is in want of them, praise them all

alike; though I should not wonder, O my friend, if many of them were really ignorant of

their effect upon the soul; and their customers equally ignorant, unless he who buys of

them happens to be a physician of the soul. If, therefore, you have understanding of

what is good and evil, you may safely buy knowledge of Protagoras or of any one; but if

not, then, O my friend, pause, and do not hazard your dearest interests at a game of

chance. For there is far greater peril in buying knowledge than in buying meat and drink:

the one you purchase of the wholesale or retail dealer, and carry them away in other

vessels, and before you receive them into the body as food, you may deposit them at

home and call in any experienced friend who knows what is good to be eaten or

drunken, and what not, and how much, and when; and then the danger of purchasing

them is not so great. But you cannot buy the wares of knowledge and carry them away

in another vessel; when you have paid for them you must receive them into the soul and

go your way, either greatly harmed or greatly benefited; and therefore we should

deliberate and take counsel with our elders; for we are still young—too young to

determine such a matter. And now let us go, as we were intending, and hear Protagoras;

and when we have heard what he has to say, we may take counsel of others; for not only

is Protagoras at the house of Callias, but there is Hippias of Elis, and, if I am not

mistaken, Prodicus of Ceos, and several other wise men.

To this we agreed, and proceeded on our way until we reached the vestibule of the

house; and there we stopped in order to conclude a discussion which had arisen

between us as we were going along; and we stood talking in the vestibule until we had

finished and come to an understanding. And I think that the door-keeper, who was a

eunuch, and who was probably annoyed at the great inroad of the Sophists, must have

heard us talking. At any rate, when we knocked at the door, and he opened and saw us,

he grumbled: They are Sophists—he is not at home; and instantly gave the door a

hearty bang with both his hands. Again we knocked, and he answered without opening:

Did you not hear me say that he is not at home, fellows? But, my friend, I said, you need

not be alarmed; for we are not Sophists, and we are not come to see Callias, but we

want to see Protagoras; and I must request you to announce us. At last, after a good

deal of difficulty, the man was persuaded to open the door.

When we entered, we found Protagoras taking a walk in the cloister; and next to him, on

one side, were walking Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and Paralus, the son of Pericles,

who, by the mother's side, is his half- brother, and Charmides, the son of Glaucon. On

the other side of him were Xanthippus, the other son of Pericles, Philippides, the son of

Philomelus; also Antimoerus of Mende, who of all the disciples of Protagoras is the most

famous, and intends to make sophistry his profession. A train of listeners followed him;

the greater part of them appeared to be foreigners, whom Protagoras had brought with

him out of the various cities visited by him in his journeys, he, like Orpheus, attracting

them his voice, and they following (Compare Rep.). I should mention also that there

were some Athenians in the company. Nothing delighted me more than the precision of

their movements: they never got into his way at all; but when he and those who were

with him turned back, then the band of listeners parted regularly on either side; he was

always in front, and they wheeled round and took their places behind him in perfect

order.

After him, as Homer says (Od.), 'I lifted up my eyes and saw' Hippias the Elean sitting in

the opposite cloister on a chair of state, and around him were seated on benches

Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus, and Phaedrus the Myrrhinusian, and Andron the son

of Androtion, and there were strangers whom he had brought with him from his native

city of Elis, and some others: they were putting to Hippias certain physical and

astronomical questions, and he, ex cathedra, was determining their several questions to

them, and discoursing of them.

Also, 'my eyes beheld Tantalus (Od.);' for Prodicus the Cean was at Athens: he had been

lodged in a room which, in the days of Hipponicus, was a storehouse; but, as the house

was full, Callias had cleared this out and made the room into a guest-chamber. Now

Prodicus was still in bed, wrapped up in sheepskins and bedclothes, of which there

seemed to be a great heap; and there was sitting by him on the couches near, Pausanias

of the deme of Cerameis, and with Pausanias was a youth quite young, who is certainly

remarkable for his good looks, and, if I am not mistaken, is also of a fair and gentle

nature. I thought that I heard him called Agathon, and my suspicion is that he is the

beloved of Pausanias. There was this youth, and also there were the two Adeimantuses,

one the son of Cepis, and the other of Leucolophides, and some others. I was very

anxious to hear what Prodicus was saying, for he seems to me to be an all-wise and

inspired man; but I was not able to get into the inner circle, and his fine deep voice

made an echo in the room which rendered his words inaudible.

No sooner had we entered than there followed us Alcibiades the beautiful, as you say,

and I believe you; and also Critias the son of Callaeschrus.

On entering we stopped a little, in order to look about us, and then walked up to

Protagoras, and I said: Protagoras, my friend Hippocrates and I have come to see you.

Do you wish, he said, to speak with me alone, or in the presence of the company?

Whichever you please, I said; you shall determine when you have heard the purpose of

our visit.

And what is your purpose? he said.

I must explain, I said, that my friend Hippocrates is a native Athenian; he is the son of

Apollodorus, and of a great and prosperous house, and he is himself in natural ability

quite a match for anybody of his own age. I believe that he aspires to political eminence;

and this he thinks that conversation with you is most likely to procure for him. And now

you can determine whether you would wish to speak to him of your teaching alone or in

the presence of the company.

Thank you, Socrates, for your consideration of me. For certainly a stranger finding his

way into great cities, and persuading the flower of the youth in them to leave company

of their kinsmen or any other acquaintances, old or young, and live with him, under the

idea that they will be improved by his conversation, ought to be very cautious; great

jealousies are aroused by his proceedings, and he is the subject of many enmities and

conspiracies. Now the art of the Sophist is, as I believe, of great antiquity; but in ancient

times those who practised it, fearing this odium, veiled and disguised themselves under

various names, some under that of poets, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, some, of

hierophants and prophets, as Orpheus and Musaeus, and some, as I observe, even under

the name of gymnastic-masters, like Iccus of Tarentum, or the more recently celebrated

Herodicus, now of Selymbria and formerly of Megara, who is a first-rate Sophist. Your

own Agathocles pretended to be a musician, but was really an eminent Sophist; also

Pythocleides the Cean; and there were many others; and all of them, as I was saying,

adopted these arts as veils or disguises because they were afraid of the odium which

they would incur. But that is not my way, for I do not believe that they effected their

purpose, which was to deceive the government, who were not blinded by them; and as

to the people, they have no understanding, and only repeat what their rulers are pleased

to tell them. Now to run away, and to be caught in running away, is the very height of

folly, and also greatly increases the exasperation of mankind; for they regard him who

runs away as a rogue, in addition to any other objections which they have to him; and

therefore I take an entirely opposite course, and acknowledge myself to be a Sophist

and instructor of mankind; such an open acknowledgement appears to me to be a

better sort of caution than concealment. Nor do I neglect other precautions, and

therefore I hope, as I may say, by the favour of heaven that no harm will come of the

acknowledgment that I am a Sophist. And I have been now many years in the

profession—for all my years when added up are many: there is no one here present of

whom I might not be the father. Wherefore I should much prefer conversing with you, if

you want to speak with me, in the presence of the company.

As I suspected that he would like to have a little display and glorification in the presence

of Prodicus and Hippias, and would gladly show us to them in the light of his admirers, I

said: But why should we not summon Prodicus and Hippias and their friends to hear us?

Very good, he said.

Suppose, said Callias, that we hold a council in which you may sit and discuss.—This was

agreed upon, and great delight was felt at the prospect of hearing wise men talk; we

ourselves took the chairs and benches, and arranged them by Hippias, where the other

benches had been already placed. Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades got Prodicus out of

bed and brought in him and his companions.

When we were all seated, Protagoras said: Now that the company are assembled,

Socrates, tell me about the young man of whom you were just now speaking.

I replied: I will begin again at the same point, Protagoras, and tell you once more the

purport of my visit: this is my friend Hippocrates, who is desirous of making your

acquaintance; he would like to know what will happen to him if he associates with you. I

have no more to say.

Protagoras answered: Young man, if you associate with me, on the very first day you will

return home a better man than you came, and better on the second day than on the

first, and better every day than you were on the day before.

When I heard this, I said: Protagoras, I do not at all wonder at hearing you say this; even

at your age, and with all your wisdom, if any one were to teach you what you did not

know before, you would become better no doubt: but please to answer in a different

way—I will explain how by an example. Let me suppose that Hippocrates, instead of

desiring your acquaintance, wished to become acquainted with the young man

Zeuxippus of Heraclea, who has lately been in Athens, and he had come to him as he

has come to you, and had heard him say, as he has heard you say, that every day he

would grow and become better if he associated with him: and then suppose that he

were to ask him, 'In what shall I become better, and in what shall I grow?'—Zeuxippus

would answer, 'In painting.' And suppose that he went to Orthagoras the Theban, and

heard him say the same thing, and asked him, 'In what shall I become better day by

day?' he would reply, 'In flute-playing.' Now I want you to make the same sort of answer

to this young man and to me, who am asking questions on his account. When you say

that on the first day on which he associates with you he will return home a better man,

and on every day will grow in like manner,—in what, Protagoras, will he be better? and

about what?

When Protagoras heard me say this, he replied: You ask questions fairly, and I like to

answer a question which is fairly put. If Hippocrates comes to me he will not experience

the sort of drudgery with which other Sophists are in the habit of insulting their pupils;

who, when they have just escaped from the arts, are taken and driven back into them by

these teachers, and made to learn calculation, and astronomy, and geometry, and music

(he gave a look at Hippias as he said this); but if he comes to me, he will learn that which

he comes to learn. And this is prudence in affairs private as well as public; he will learn

to order his own house in the best manner, and he will be able to speak and act for the

best in the affairs of the state.

Do I understand you, I said; and is your meaning that you teach the art of politics, and

that you promise to make men good citizens?

That, Socrates, is exactly the profession which I make.

Then, I said, you do indeed possess a noble art, if there is no mistake about this; for I will

freely confess to you, Protagoras, that I have a doubt whether this art is capable of

being taught, and yet I know not how to disbelieve your assertion. And I ought to tell

you why I am of opinion that this art cannot be taught or communicated by man to

man. I say that the Athenians are an understanding people, and indeed they are

esteemed to be such by the other Hellenes. Now I observe that when we are met

together in the assembly, and the matter in hand relates to building, the builders are

summoned as advisers; when the question is one of ship-building, then the ship-wrights;

and the like of other arts which they think capable of being taught and learned. And if

some person offers to give them advice who is not supposed by them to have any skill

in the art, even though he be good-looking, and rich, and noble, they will not listen to

him, but laugh and hoot at him, until either he is clamoured down and retires of himself;

or if he persist, he is dragged away or put out by the constables at the command of the

prytanes. This is their way of behaving about professors of the arts. But when the

question is an affair of state, then everybody is free to have a say—carpenter, tinker,

cobbler, sailor, passenger; rich and poor, high and low—any one who likes gets up, and

no one reproaches him, as in the former case, with not having learned, and having no

teacher, and yet giving advice; evidently because they are under the impression that this

sort of knowledge cannot be taught. And not only is this true of the state, but of

individuals; the best and wisest of our citizens are unable to impart their political

wisdom to others: as for example, Pericles, the father of these young men, who gave

them excellent instruction in all that could be learned from masters, in his own

department of politics neither taught them, nor gave them teachers; but they were

allowed to wander at their own free will in a sort of hope that they would light upon

virtue of their own accord. Or take another example: there was Cleinias the younger

brother of our friend Alcibiades, of whom this very same Pericles was the guardian; and

he being in fact under the apprehension that Cleinias would be corrupted by Alcibiades,

took him away, and placed him in the house of Ariphron to be educated; but before six

months had elapsed, Ariphron sent him back, not knowing what to do with him. And I

could mention numberless other instances of persons who were good themselves, and

never yet made any one else good, whether friend or stranger. Now I, Protagoras,

having these examples before me, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be taught. But

then again, when I listen to your words, I waver; and am disposed to think that there

must be something in what you say, because I know that you have great experience, and

learning, and invention. And I wish that you would, if possible, show me a little more

clearly that virtue can be taught. Will you be so good?

That I will, Socrates, and gladly. But what would you like? Shall I, as an elder, speak to

you as younger men in an apologue or myth, or shall I argue out the question?

To this several of the company answered that he should choose for himself.

Well, then, he said, I think that the myth will be more interesting.

Once upon a time there were gods only, and no mortal creatures. But when the time

came that these also should be created, the gods fashioned them out of earth and fire

and various mixtures of both elements in the interior of the earth; and when they were

about to bring them into the light of day, they ordered Prometheus and Epimetheus to

equip them, and to distribute to them severally their proper qualities. Epimetheus said

to Prometheus: 'Let me distribute, and do you inspect.' This was agreed, and Epimetheus

made the distribution. There were some to whom he gave strength without swiftness,

while he equipped the weaker with swiftness; some he armed, and others he left

unarmed; and devised for the latter some other means of preservation, making some

large, and having their size as a protection, and others small, whose nature was to fly in

the air or burrow in the ground; this was to be their way of escape. Thus did he

compensate them with the view of preventing any race from becoming extinct. And

when he had provided against their destruction by one another, he contrived also a

means of protecting them against the seasons of heaven; clothing them with close hair

and thick skins sufficient to defend them against the winter cold and able to resist the

summer heat, so that they might have a natural bed of their own when they wanted to

rest; also he furnished them with hoofs and hair and hard and callous skins under their

feet. Then he gave them varieties of food,—herb of the soil to some, to others fruits of

trees, and to others roots, and to some again he gave other animals as food. And some

he made to have few young ones, while those who were their prey were very prolific;

and in this manner the race was preserved. Thus did Epimetheus, who, not being very

wise, forgot that he had distributed among the brute animals all the qualities which he

had to give,—and when he came to man, who was still unprovided, he was terribly

perplexed. Now while he was in this perplexity, Prometheus came to inspect the

distribution, and he found that the other animals were suitably furnished, but that man

alone was naked and shoeless, and had neither bed nor arms of defence. The appointed

hour was approaching when man in his turn was to go forth into the light of day; and

Prometheus, not knowing how he could devise his salvation, stole the mechanical arts of

Hephaestus and Athene, and fire with them (they could neither have been acquired nor

used without fire), and gave them to man. Thus man had the wisdom necessary to the

support of life, but political wisdom he had not; for that was in the keeping of Zeus, and

the power of Prometheus did not extend to entering into the citadel of heaven, where

Zeus dwelt, who moreover had terrible sentinels; but he did enter by stealth into the

common workshop of Athene and Hephaestus, in which they used to practise their

favourite arts, and carried off Hephaestus' art of working by fire, and also the art of

Athene, and gave them to man. And in this way man was supplied with the means of

life. But Prometheus is said to have been afterwards prosecuted for theft, owing to the

blunder of Epimetheus.

Now man, having a share of the divine attributes, was at first the only one of the animals

who had any gods, because he alone was of their kindred; and he would raise altars and

images of them. He was not long in inventing articulate speech and names; and he also

constructed houses and clothes and shoes and beds, and drew sustenance from the

earth. Thus provided, mankind at first lived dispersed, and there were no cities. But the

consequence was that they were destroyed by the wild beasts, for they were utterly

weak in comparison of them, and their art was only sufficient to provide them with the

means of life, and did not enable them to carry on war against the animals: food they

had, but not as yet the art of government, of which the art of war is a part. After a while

the desire of self-preservation gathered them into cities; but when they were gathered

together, having no art of government, they evil intreated one another, and were again

in process of dispersion and destruction. Zeus feared that the entire race would be

exterminated, and so he sent Hermes to them, bearing reverence and justice to be the

ordering principles of cities and the bonds of friendship and conciliation. Hermes asked

Zeus how he should impart justice and reverence among men:—Should he distribute

them as the arts are distributed; that is to say, to a favoured few only, one skilled

individual having enough of medicine or of any other art for many unskilled ones? 'Shall

this be the manner in which I am to distribute justice and reverence among men, or shall

I give them to all?' 'To all,' said Zeus; 'I should like them all to have a share; for cities

cannot exist, if a few only share in the virtues, as in the arts. And further, make a law by

my order, that he who has no part in reverence and justice shall be put to death, for he

is a plague of the state.'

And this is the reason, Socrates, why the Athenians and mankind in general, when the

question relates to carpentering or any other mechanical art, allow but a few to share in

their deliberations; and when any one else interferes, then, as you say, they object, if he

be not of the favoured few; which, as I reply, is very natural. But when they meet to

deliberate about political virtue, which proceeds only by way of justice and wisdom, they

are patient enough of any man who speaks of them, as is also natural, because they

think that every man ought to share in this sort of virtue, and that states could not exist

if this were otherwise. I have explained to you, Socrates, the reason of this phenomenon.

And that you may not suppose yourself to be deceived in thinking that all men regard

every man as having a share of justice or honesty and of every other political virtue, let

me give you a further proof, which is this. In other cases, as you are aware, if a man says

that he is a good flute- player, or skilful in any other art in which he has no skill, people

either laugh at him or are angry with him, and his relations think that he is mad and go

and admonish him; but when honesty is in question, or some other political virtue, even

if they know that he is dishonest, yet, if the man comes publicly forward and tells the

truth about his dishonesty, then, what in the other case was held by them to be good

sense, they now deem to be madness. They say that all men ought to profess honesty

whether they are honest or not, and that a man is out of his mind who says anything

else. Their notion is, that a man must have some degree of honesty; and that if he has

none at all he ought not to be in the world.

I have been showing that they are right in admitting every man as a counsellor about

this sort of virtue, as they are of opinion that every man is a partaker of it. And I will now

endeavour to show further that they do not conceive this virtue to be given by nature,

or to grow spontaneously, but to be a thing which may be taught; and which comes to a

man by taking pains. No one would instruct, no one would rebuke, or be angry with

those whose calamities they suppose to be due to nature or chance; they do not try to

punish or to prevent them from being what they are; they do but pity them. Who is so

foolish as to chastise or instruct the ugly, or the diminutive, or the feeble? And for this

reason. Because he knows that good and evil of this kind is the work of nature and of

chance; whereas if a man is wanting in those good qualities which are attained by study

and exercise and teaching, and has only the contrary evil qualities, other men are angry

with him, and punish and reprove him—of these evil qualities one is impiety, another

injustice, and they may be described generally as the very opposite of political virtue. In

such cases any man will be angry with another, and reprimand him,—clearly because he

thinks that by study and learning, the virtue in which the other is deficient may be

acquired. If you will think, Socrates, of the nature of punishment, you will see at once

that in the opinion of mankind virtue may be acquired; no one punishes the evil-doer

under the notion, or for the reason, that he has done wrong, —only the unreasonable

fury of a beast acts in that manner. But he who desires to inflict rational punishment

does not retaliate for a past wrong which cannot be undone; he has regard to the

future, and is desirous that the man who is punished, and he who sees him punished,

may be deterred from doing wrong again. He punishes for the sake of prevention,

thereby clearly implying that virtue is capable of being taught. This is the notion of all

who retaliate upon others either privately or publicly. And the Athenians, too, your own

citizens, like other men, punish and take vengeance on all whom they regard as evil

doers; and hence, we may infer them to be of the number of those who think that virtue

may be acquired and taught. Thus far, Socrates, I have shown you clearly enough, if I am

not mistaken, that your countrymen are right in admitting the tinker and the cobbler to

advise about politics, and also that they deem virtue to be capable of being taught and

acquired.

There yet remains one difficulty which has been raised by you about the sons of good

men. What is the reason why good men teach their sons the knowledge which is gained

from teachers, and make them wise in that, but do nothing towards improving them in

the virtues which distinguish themselves? And here, Socrates, I will leave the apologue

and resume the argument. Please to consider: Is there or is there not some one quality

of which all the citizens must be partakers, if there is to be a city at all? In the answer to

this question is contained the only solution of your difficulty; there is no other. For if

there be any such quality, and this quality or unity is not the art of the carpenter, or the

smith, or the potter, but justice and temperance and holiness and, in a word, manly

virtue—if this is the quality of which all men must be partakers, and which is the very

condition of their learning or doing anything else, and if he who is wanting in this,

whether he be a child only or a grown-up man or woman, must be taught and punished,

until by punishment he becomes better, and he who rebels against instruction and

punishment is either exiled or condemned to death under the idea that he is incurable—

if what I am saying be true, good men have their sons taught other things and not this,

do consider how extraordinary their conduct would appear to be. For we have shown

that they think virtue capable of being taught and cultivated both in private and public;

and, notwithstanding, they have their sons taught lesser matters, ignorance of which

does not involve the punishment of death: but greater things, of which the ignorance

may cause death and exile to those who have no training or knowledge of them—aye,

and confiscation as well as death, and, in a word, may be the ruin of families—those

things, I say, they are supposed not to teach them,—not to take the utmost care that

they should learn. How improbable is this, Socrates!

Education and admonition commence in the first years of childhood, and last to the very

end of life. Mother and nurse and father and tutor are vying with one another about the

improvement of the child as soon as ever he is able to understand what is being said to

him: he cannot say or do anything without their setting forth to him that this is just and

that is unjust; this is honourable, that is dishonourable; this is holy, that is unholy; do this

and abstain from that. And if he obeys, well and good; if not, he is straightened by

threats and blows, like a piece of bent or warped wood. At a later stage they send him

to teachers, and enjoin them to see to his manners even more than to his reading and

music; and the teachers do as they are desired. And when the boy has learned his letters

and is beginning to understand what is written, as before he understood only what was

spoken, they put into his hands the works of great poets, which he reads sitting on a

bench at school; in these are contained many admonitions, and many tales, and praises,

and encomia of ancient famous men, which he is required to learn by heart, in order

that he may imitate or emulate them and desire to become like them. Then, again, the

teachers of the lyre take similar care that their young disciple is temperate and gets into

no mischief; and when they have taught him the use of the lyre, they introduce him to

the poems of other excellent poets, who are the lyric poets; and these they set to music,

and make their harmonies and rhythms quite familiar to the children's souls, in order

that they may learn to be more gentle, and harmonious, and rhythmical, and so more

fitted for speech and action; for the life of man in every part has need of harmony and

rhythm. Then they send them to the master of gymnastic, in order that their bodies may

better minister to the virtuous mind, and that they may not be compelled through

bodily weakness to play the coward in war or on any other occasion. This is what is done

by those who have the means, and those who have the means are the rich; their children

begin to go to school soonest and leave off latest. When they have done with masters,

the state again compels them to learn the laws, and live after the pattern which they

furnish, and not after their own fancies; and just as in learning to write, the writingmaster

first draws lines with a style for the use of the young beginner, and gives him the

tablet and makes him follow the lines, so the city draws the laws, which were the

invention of good lawgivers living in the olden time; these are given to the young man,

in order to guide him in his conduct whether he is commanding or obeying; and he who

transgresses them is to be corrected, or, in other words, called to account, which is a

term used not only in your country, but also in many others, seeing that justice calls

men to account. Now when there is all this care about virtue private and public, why,

Socrates, do you still wonder and doubt whether virtue can be taught? Cease to wonder,

for the opposite would be far more surprising.

But why then do the sons of good fathers often turn out ill? There is nothing very

wonderful in this; for, as I have been saying, the existence of a state implies that virtue is

not any man's private possession. If so —and nothing can be truer—then I will further

ask you to imagine, as an illustration, some other pursuit or branch of knowledge which

may be assumed equally to be the condition of the existence of a state. Suppose that

there could be no state unless we were all flute-players, as far as each had the capacity,

and everybody was freely teaching everybody the art, both in private and public, and

reproving the bad player as freely and openly as every man now teaches justice and the

laws, not concealing them as he would conceal the other arts, but imparting them—for

all of us have a mutual interest in the justice and virtue of one another, and this is the

reason why every one is so ready to teach justice and the laws;—suppose, I say, that

there were the same readiness and liberality among us in teaching one another fluteplaying,

do you imagine, Socrates, that the sons of good flute-players would be more

likely to be good than the sons of bad ones? I think not. Would not their sons grow up

to be distinguished or undistinguished according to their own natural capacities as

flute-players, and the son of a good player would often turn out to be a bad one, and

the son of a bad player to be a good one, all flute-players would be good enough in

comparison of those who were ignorant and unacquainted with the art of flute-playing?

In like manner I would have you consider that he who appears to you to be the worst of

those who have been brought up in laws and humanities, would appear to be a just man

and a master of justice if he were to be compared with men who had no education, or

courts of justice, or laws, or any restraints upon them which compelled them to practise

virtue— with the savages, for example, whom the poet Pherecrates exhibited on the

stage at the last year's Lenaean festival. If you were living among men such as the manhaters

in his Chorus, you would be only too glad to meet with Eurybates and

Phrynondas, and you would sorrowfully long to revisit the rascality of this part of the

world. You, Socrates, are discontented, and why? Because all men are teachers of virtue,

each one according to his ability; and you say Where are the teachers? You might as

well ask, Who teaches Greek? For of that too there will not be any teachers found. Or

you might ask, Who is to teach the sons of our artisans this same art which they have

learned of their fathers? He and his fellow-workmen have taught them to the best of

their ability,—but who will carry them further in their arts? And you would certainly have

a difficulty, Socrates, in finding a teacher of them; but there would be no difficulty in

finding a teacher of those who are wholly ignorant. And this is true of virtue or of

anything else; if a man is better able than we are to promote virtue ever so little, we

must be content with the result. A teacher of this sort I believe myself to be, and above

all other men to have the knowledge which makes a man noble and good; and I give my

pupils their money's-worth, and even more, as they themselves confess. And therefore I

have introduced the following mode of payment:—When a man has been my pupil, if he

likes he pays my price, but there is no compulsion; and if he does not like, he has only to

go into a temple and take an oath of the value of the instructions, and he pays no more

than he declares to be their value.

Such is my Apologue, Socrates, and such is the argument by which I endeavour to show

that virtue may be taught, and that this is the opinion of the Athenians. And I have also

attempted to show that you are not to wonder at good fathers having bad sons, or at

good sons having bad fathers, of which the sons of Polycleitus afford an example, who

are the companions of our friends here, Paralus and Xanthippus, but are nothing in

comparison with their father; and this is true of the sons of many other artists. As yet I

ought not to say the same of Paralus and Xanthippus themselves, for they are young

and there is still hope of them.

Protagoras ended, and in my ear

'So charming left his voice, that I the while Thought him still speaking; still stood fixed to

hear (Borrowed by Milton, "Paradise Lost".).'

At length, when the truth dawned upon me, that he had really finished, not without

difficulty I began to collect myself, and looking at Hippocrates, I said to him: O son of

Apollodorus, how deeply grateful I am to you for having brought me hither; I would not

have missed the speech of Protagoras for a great deal. For I used to imagine that no

human care could make men good; but I know better now. Yet I have still one very small

difficulty which I am sure that Protagoras will easily explain, as he has already explained

so much. If a man were to go and consult Pericles or any of our great speakers about

these matters, he might perhaps hear as fine a discourse; but then when one has a

question to ask of any of them, like books, they can neither answer nor ask; and if any

one challenges the least particular of their speech, they go ringing on in a long

harangue, like brazen pots, which when they are struck continue to sound unless some

one puts his hand upon them; whereas our friend Protagoras can not only make a good

speech, as he has already shown, but when he is asked a question he can answer briefly;

and when he asks he will wait and hear the answer; and this is a very rare gift. Now I,

Protagoras, want to ask of you a little question, which if you will only answer, I shall be

quite satisfied. You were saying that virtue can be taught;—that I will take upon your

authority, and there is no one to whom I am more ready to trust. But I marvel at one

thing about which I should like to have my mind set at rest. You were speaking of Zeus

sending justice and reverence to men; and several times while you were speaking,

justice, and temperance, and holiness, and all these qualities, were described by you as if

together they made up virtue. Now I want you to tell me truly whether virtue is one

whole, of which justice and temperance and holiness are parts; or whether all these are

only the names of one and the same thing: that is the doubt which still lingers in my

mind.

There is no difficulty, Socrates, in answering that the qualities of which you are speaking

are the parts of virtue which is one.

And are they parts, I said, in the same sense in which mouth, nose, and eyes, and ears,

are the parts of a face; or are they like the parts of gold, which differ from the whole and

from one another only in being larger or smaller?

I should say that they differed, Socrates, in the first way; they are related to one another

as the parts of a face are related to the whole face.

And do men have some one part and some another part of virtue? Or if a man has one

part, must he also have all the others?

By no means, he said; for many a man is brave and not just, or just and not wise.

You would not deny, then, that courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue?

Most undoubtedly they are, he answered; and wisdom is the noblest of the parts.

And they are all different from one another? I said.

Yes.

And has each of them a distinct function like the parts of the face;—the eye, for

example, is not like the ear, and has not the same functions; and the other parts are

none of them like one another, either in their functions, or in any other way? I want to

know whether the comparison holds concerning the parts of virtue. Do they also differ

from one another in themselves and in their functions? For that is clearly what the simile

would imply.

Yes, Socrates, you are right in supposing that they differ.

Then, I said, no other part of virtue is like knowledge, or like justice, or like courage, or

like temperance, or like holiness?

No, he answered.

Well then, I said, suppose that you and I enquire into their natures. And first, you would

agree with me that justice is of the nature of a thing, would you not? That is my opinion:

would it not be yours also?

Mine also, he said.

And suppose that some one were to ask us, saying, 'O Protagoras, and you, Socrates,

what about this thing which you were calling justice, is it just or unjust?'—and I were to

answer, just: would you vote with me or against me?

With you, he said.

Thereupon I should answer to him who asked me, that justice is of the nature of the just:

would not you?

Yes, he said.

And suppose that he went on to say: 'Well now, is there also such a thing as holiness?'—

we should answer, 'Yes,' if I am not mistaken?

Yes, he said.

Which you would also acknowledge to be a thing—should we not say so?

He assented.

'And is this a sort of thing which is of the nature of the holy, or of the nature of the

unholy?' I should be angry at his putting such a question, and should say, 'Peace, man;

nothing can be holy if holiness is not holy.' What would you say? Would you not answer

in the same way?

Certainly, he said.

And then after this suppose that he came and asked us, 'What were you saying just

now? Perhaps I may not have heard you rightly, but you seemed to me to be saying that

the parts of virtue were not the same as one another.' I should reply, 'You certainly

heard that said, but not, as you imagine, by me; for I only asked the question;

Protagoras gave the answer.' And suppose that he turned to you and said, 'Is this true,

Protagoras? and do you maintain that one part of virtue is unlike another, and is this

your position?'—how would you answer him?

I could not help acknowledging the truth of what he said, Socrates.

Well then, Protagoras, we will assume this; and now supposing that he proceeded to say

further, 'Then holiness is not of the nature of justice, nor justice of the nature of holiness,

but of the nature of unholiness; and holiness is of the nature of the not just, and

therefore of the unjust, and the unjust is the unholy': how shall we answer him? I should

certainly answer him on my own behalf that justice is holy, and that holiness is just; and I

would say in like manner on your behalf also, if you would allow me, that justice is either

the same with holiness, or very nearly the same; and above all I would assert that justice

is like holiness and holiness is like justice; and I wish that you would tell me whether I

may be permitted to give this answer on your behalf, and whether you would agree with

me.

He replied, I cannot simply agree, Socrates, to the proposition that justice is holy and

that holiness is just, for there appears to me to be a difference between them. But what

matter? if you please I please; and let us assume, if you will I, that justice is holy, and that

holiness is just.

Pardon me, I replied; I do not want this 'if you wish' or 'if you will' sort of conclusion to

be proven, but I want you and me to be proven: I mean to say that the conclusion will

be best proven if there be no 'if.'

Well, he said, I admit that justice bears a resemblance to holiness, for there is always

some point of view in which everything is like every other thing; white is in a certain way

like black, and hard is like soft, and the most extreme opposites have some qualities in

common; even the parts of the face which, as we were saying before, are distinct and

have different functions, are still in a certain point of view similar, and one of them is like

another of them. And you may prove that they are like one another on the same

principle that all things are like one another; and yet things which are like in some

particular ought not to be called alike, nor things which are unlike in some particular,

however slight, unlike.

And do you think, I said in a tone of surprise, that justice and holiness have but a small

degree of likeness?

Certainly not; any more than I agree with what I understand to be your view.

Well, I said, as you appear to have a difficulty about this, let us take another of the

examples which you mentioned instead. Do you admit the existence of folly?

I do.

And is not wisdom the very opposite of folly?

That is true, he said.

And when men act rightly and advantageously they seem to you to be temperate?

Yes, he said.

And temperance makes them temperate?

Certainly.

And they who do not act rightly act foolishly, and in acting thus are not temperate?

I agree, he said.

Then to act foolishly is the opposite of acting temperately?

He assented.

And foolish actions are done by folly, and temperate actions by temperance?

He agreed.

And that is done strongly which is done by strength, and that which is weakly done, by

weakness?

He assented.

And that which is done with swiftness is done swiftly, and that which is done with

slowness, slowly?

He assented again.

And that which is done in the same manner, is done by the same; and that which is done

in an opposite manner by the opposite?

He agreed.

Once more, I said, is there anything beautiful?

Yes.

To which the only opposite is the ugly?

There is no other.

And is there anything good?

There is.

To which the only opposite is the evil?

There is no other.

And there is the acute in sound?

True.

To which the only opposite is the grave?

There is no other, he said, but that.

Then every opposite has one opposite only and no more?

He assented.

Then now, I said, let us recapitulate our admissions. First of all we admitted that

everything has one opposite and not more than one?

We did so.

And we admitted also that what was done in opposite ways was done by opposites?

Yes.

And that which was done foolishly, as we further admitted, was done in the opposite

way to that which was done temperately?

Yes.

And that which was done temperately was done by temperance, and that which was

done foolishly by folly?

He agreed.

And that which is done in opposite ways is done by opposites?

Yes.

And one thing is done by temperance, and quite another thing by folly?

Yes.

And in opposite ways?

Certainly.

And therefore by opposites:—then folly is the opposite of temperance?

Clearly.

And do you remember that folly has already been acknowledged by us to be the

opposite of wisdom?

He assented.

And we said that everything has only one opposite?

Yes.

Then, Protagoras, which of the two assertions shall we renounce? One says that

everything has but one opposite; the other that wisdom is distinct from temperance,

and that both of them are parts of virtue; and that they are not only distinct, but

dissimilar, both in themselves and in their functions, like the parts of a face. Which of

these two assertions shall we renounce? For both of them together are certainly not in

harmony; they do not accord or agree: for how can they be said to agree if everything is

assumed to have only one opposite and not more than one, and yet folly, which is one,

has clearly the two opposites—wisdom and temperance? Is not that true, Protagoras?

What else would you say?

He assented, but with great reluctance.

Then temperance and wisdom are the same, as before justice and holiness appeared to

us to be nearly the same. And now, Protagoras, I said, we must finish the enquiry, and

not faint. Do you think that an unjust man can be temperate in his injustice?

I should be ashamed, Socrates, he said, to acknowledge this, which nevertheless many

may be found to assert.

And shall I argue with them or with you? I replied.

I would rather, he said, that you should argue with the many first, if you will.

Whichever you please, if you will only answer me and say whether you are of their

opinion or not. My object is to test the validity of the argument; and yet the result may

be that I who ask and you who answer may both be put on our trial.

Protagoras at first made a show of refusing, as he said that the argument was not

encouraging; at length, he consented to answer.

Now then, I said, begin at the beginning and answer me. You think that some men are

temperate, and yet unjust?

Yes, he said; let that be admitted.

And temperance is good sense?

Yes.

And good sense is good counsel in doing injustice?

Granted.

If they succeed, I said, or if they do not succeed?

If they succeed.

And you would admit the existence of goods?

Yes.

And is the good that which is expedient for man?

Yes, indeed, he said: and there are some things which may be inexpedient, and yet I call

them good.

I thought that Protagoras was getting ruffled and excited; he seemed to be setting

himself in an attitude of war. Seeing this, I minded my business, and gently said:—

When you say, Protagoras, that things inexpedient are good, do you mean inexpedient

for man only, or inexpedient altogether? and do you call the latter good?

Certainly not the last, he replied; for I know of many things—meats, drinks, medicines,

and ten thousand other things, which are inexpedient for man, and some which are

expedient; and some which are neither expedient nor inexpedient for man, but only for

horses; and some for oxen only, and some for dogs; and some for no animals, but only

for trees; and some for the roots of trees and not for their branches, as for example,

manure, which is a good thing when laid about the roots of a tree, but utterly

destructive if thrown upon the shoots and young branches; or I may instance olive oil,

which is mischievous to all plants, and generally most injurious to the hair of every

animal with the exception of man, but beneficial to human hair and to the human body

generally; and even in this application (so various and changeable is the nature of the

benefit), that which is the greatest good to the outward parts of a man, is a very great

evil to his inward parts: and for this reason physicians always forbid their patients the

use of oil in their food, except in very small quantities, just enough to extinguish the

disagreeable sensation of smell in meats and sauces.

When he had given this answer, the company cheered him. And I said: Protagoras, I

have a wretched memory, and when any one makes a long speech to me I never

remember what he is talking about. As then, if I had been deaf, and you were going to

converse with me, you would have had to raise your voice; so now, having such a bad

memory, I will ask you to cut your answers shorter, if you would take me with you.

What do you mean? he said: how am I to shorten my answers? shall I make them too

short?

Certainly not, I said.

But short enough?

Yes, I said.

Shall I answer what appears to me to be short enough, or what appears to you to be

short enough?

I have heard, I said, that you can speak and teach others to speak about the same things

at such length that words never seemed to fail, or with such brevity that no one could

use fewer of them. Please therefore, if you talk with me, to adopt the latter or more

compendious method.

Socrates, he replied, many a battle of words have I fought, and if I had followed the

method of disputation which my adversaries desired, as you want me to do, I should

have been no better than another, and the name of Protagoras would have been

nowhere.

I saw that he was not satisfied with his previous answers, and that he would not play the

part of answerer any more if he could help; and I considered that there was no call upon

me to continue the conversation; so I said: Protagoras, I do not wish to force the

conversation upon you if you had rather not, but when you are willing to argue with me

in such a way that I can follow you, then I will argue with you. Now you, as is said of you

by others and as you say of yourself, are able to have discussions in shorter forms of

speech as well as in longer, for you are a master of wisdom; but I cannot manage these

long speeches: I only wish that I could. You, on the other hand, who are capable of

either, ought to speak shorter as I beg you, and then we might converse. But I see that

you are disinclined, and as I have an engagement which will prevent my staying to hear

you at greater length (for I have to be in another place), I will depart; although I should

have liked to have heard you.

Thus I spoke, and was rising from my seat, when Callias seized me by the right hand,

and in his left hand caught hold of this old cloak of mine. He said: We cannot let you go,

Socrates, for if you leave us there will be an end of our discussions: I must therefore beg

you to remain, as there is nothing in the world that I should like better than to hear you

and Protagoras discourse. Do not deny the company this pleasure.

Now I had got up, and was in the act of departure. Son of Hipponicus, I replied, I have

always admired, and do now heartily applaud and love your philosophical spirit, and I

would gladly comply with your request, if I could. But the truth is that I cannot. And

what you ask is as great an impossibility to me, as if you bade me run a race with Crison

of Himera, when in his prime, or with some one of the long or day course runners. To

such a request I should reply that I would fain ask the same of my own legs; but they

refuse to comply. And therefore if you want to see Crison and me in the same stadium,

you must bid him slacken his speed to mine, for I cannot run quickly, and he can run

slowly. And in like manner if you want to hear me and Protagoras discoursing, you must

ask him to shorten his answers, and keep to the point, as he did at first; if not, how can

there be any discussion? For discussion is one thing, and making an oration is quite

another, in my humble opinion.

But you see, Socrates, said Callias, that Protagoras may fairly claim to speak in his own

way, just as you claim to speak in yours.

Here Alcibiades interposed, and said: That, Callias, is not a true statement of the case.

For our friend Socrates admits that he cannot make a speech—in this he yields the palm

to Protagoras: but I should be greatly surprised if he yielded to any living man in the

power of holding and apprehending an argument. Now if Protagoras will make a similar

admission, and confess that he is inferior to Socrates in argumentative skill, that is

enough for Socrates; but if he claims a superiority in argument as well, let him ask and

answer—not, when a question is asked, slipping away from the point, and instead of

answering, making a speech at such length that most of his hearers forget the question

at issue (not that Socrates is likely to forget—I will be bound for that, although he may

pretend in fun that he has a bad memory). And Socrates appears to me to be more in

the right than Protagoras; that is my view, and every man ought to say what he thinks.

When Alcibiades had done speaking, some one—Critias, I believe—went on to say: O

Prodicus and Hippias, Callias appears to me to be a partisan of Protagoras: and this led

Alcibiades, who loves opposition, to take the other side. But we should not be partisans

either of Socrates or of Protagoras; let us rather unite in entreating both of them not to

break up the discussion.

Prodicus added: That, Critias, seems to me to be well said, for those who are present at

such discussions ought to be impartial hearers of both the speakers; remembering,

however, that impartiality is not the same as equality, for both sides should be

impartially heard, and yet an equal meed should not be assigned to both of them; but

to the wiser a higher meed should be given, and a lower to the less wise. And I as well as

Critias would beg you, Protagoras and Socrates, to grant our request, which is, that you

will argue with one another and not wrangle; for friends argue with friends out of goodwill,

but only adversaries and enemies wrangle. And then our meeting will be delightful;

for in this way you, who are the speakers, will be most likely to win esteem, and not

praise only, among us who are your audience; for esteem is a sincere conviction of the

hearers' souls, but praise is often an insincere expression of men uttering falsehoods

contrary to their conviction. And thus we who are the hearers will be gratified and not

pleased; for gratification is of the mind when receiving wisdom and knowledge, but

pleasure is of the body when eating or experiencing some other bodily delight. Thus

spoke Prodicus, and many of the company applauded his words.

Hippias the sage spoke next. He said: All of you who are here present I reckon to be

kinsmen and friends and fellow-citizens, by nature and not by law; for by nature like is

akin to like, whereas law is the tyrant of mankind, and often compels us to do many

things which are against nature. How great would be the disgrace then, if we, who know

the nature of things, and are the wisest of the Hellenes, and as such are met together in

this city, which is the metropolis of wisdom, and in the greatest and most glorious house

of this city, should have nothing to show worthy of this height of dignity, but should

only quarrel with one another like the meanest of mankind! I do pray and advise you,

Protagoras, and you, Socrates, to agree upon a compromise. Let us be your

peacemakers. And do not you, Socrates, aim at this precise and extreme brevity in

discourse, if Protagoras objects, but loosen and let go the reins of speech, that your

words may be grander and more becoming to you. Neither do you, Protagoras, go forth

on the gale with every sail set out of sight of land into an ocean of words, but let there

be a mean observed by both of you. Do as I say. And let me also persuade you to

choose an arbiter or overseer or president; he will keep watch over your words and will

prescribe their proper length.

This proposal was received by the company with universal approval; Callias said that he

would not let me off, and they begged me to choose an arbiter. But I said that to choose

an umpire of discourse would be unseemly; for if the person chosen was inferior, then

the inferior or worse ought not to preside over the better; or if he was equal, neither

would that be well; for he who is our equal will do as we do, and what will be the use of

choosing him? And if you say, 'Let us have a better then,'—to that I answer that you

cannot have any one who is wiser than Protagoras. And if you choose another who is

not really better, and whom you only say is better, to put another over him as though he

were an inferior person would be an unworthy reflection on him; not that, as far as I am

concerned, any reflection is of much consequence to me. Let me tell you then what I will

do in order that the conversation and discussion may go on as you desire. If Protagoras

is not disposed to answer, let him ask and I will answer; and I will endeavour to show at

the same time how, as I maintain, he ought to answer: and when I have answered as

many questions as he likes to ask, let him in like manner answer me; and if he seems to

be not very ready at answering the precise question asked of him, you and I will unite in

entreating him, as you entreated me, not to spoil the discussion. And this will require no

special arbiter—all of you shall be arbiters.

This was generally approved, and Protagoras, though very much against his will, was

obliged to agree that he would ask questions; and when he had put a sufficient number

of them, that he would answer in his turn those which he was asked in short replies. He

began to put his questions as follows:—

I am of opinion, Socrates, he said, that skill in poetry is the principal part of education;

and this I conceive to be the power of knowing what compositions of the poets are

correct, and what are not, and how they are to be distinguished, and of explaining when

asked the reason of the difference. And I propose to transfer the question which you

and I have been discussing to the domain of poetry; we will speak as before of virtue,

but in reference to a passage of a poet. Now Simonides says to Scopas the son of Creon

the Thessalian:

'Hardly on the one hand can a man become truly good, built four-square in hands and

feet and mind, a work without a flaw.'

Do you know the poem? or shall I repeat the whole?

There is no need, I said; for I am perfectly well acquainted with the ode, —I have made a

careful study of it.

Very well, he said. And do you think that the ode is a good composition, and true?

Yes, I said, both good and true.

But if there is a contradiction, can the composition be good or true?

No, not in that case, I replied.

And is there not a contradiction? he asked. Reflect.

Well, my friend, I have reflected.

And does not the poet proceed to say, 'I do not agree with the word of Pittacus, albeit

the utterance of a wise man: Hardly can a man be good'? Now you will observe that this

is said by the same poet.

I know it.

And do you think, he said, that the two sayings are consistent?

Yes, I said, I think so (at the same time I could not help fearing that there might be

something in what he said). And you think otherwise?

Why, he said, how can he be consistent in both? First of all, premising as his own

thought, 'Hardly can a man become truly good'; and then a little further on in the poem,

forgetting, and blaming Pittacus and refusing to agree with him, when he says, 'Hardly

can a man be good,' which is the very same thing. And yet when he blames him who

says the same with himself, he blames himself; so that he must be wrong either in his

first or his second assertion.

Many of the audience cheered and applauded this. And I felt at first giddy and faint, as if

I had received a blow from the hand of an expert boxer, when I heard his words and the

sound of the cheering; and to confess the truth, I wanted to get time to think what the

meaning of the poet really was. So I turned to Prodicus and called him. Prodicus, I said,

Simonides is a countryman of yours, and you ought to come to his aid. I must appeal to

you, like the river Scamander in Homer, who, when beleaguered by Achilles, summons

the Simois to aid him, saying:

'Brother dear, let us both together stay the force of the hero (Il.).'

And I summon you, for I am afraid that Protagoras will make an end of Simonides. Now

is the time to rehabilitate Simonides, by the application of your philosophy of synonyms,

which enables you to distinguish 'will' and 'wish,' and make other charming distinctions

like those which you drew just now. And I should like to know whether you would agree

with me; for I am of opinion that there is no contradiction in the words of Simonides.

And first of all I wish that you would say whether, in your opinion, Prodicus, 'being' is the

same as 'becoming.'

Not the same, certainly, replied Prodicus.

Did not Simonides first set forth, as his own view, that 'Hardly can a man become truly

good'?

Quite right, said Prodicus.

And then he blames Pittacus, not, as Protagoras imagines, for repeating that which he

says himself, but for saying something different from himself. Pittacus does not say as

Simonides says, that hardly can a man become good, but hardly can a man be good:

and our friend Prodicus would maintain that being, Protagoras, is not the same as

becoming; and if they are not the same, then Simonides is not inconsistent with himself.

I dare say that Prodicus and many others would say, as Hesiod says,

'On the one hand, hardly can a man become good, For the gods have made virtue the

reward of toil, But on the other hand, when you have climbed the height, Then, to retain

virtue, however difficult the acquisition, is easy (Works and Days).'

Prodicus heard and approved; but Protagoras said: Your correction, Socrates, involves a

greater error than is contained in the sentence which you are correcting.

Alas! I said, Protagoras; then I am a sorry physician, and do but aggravate a disorder

which I am seeking to cure.

Such is the fact, he said.

How so? I asked.

The poet, he replied, could never have made such a mistake as to say that virtue, which

in the opinion of all men is the hardest of all things, can be easily retained.

Well, I said, and how fortunate are we in having Prodicus among us, at the right

moment; for he has a wisdom, Protagoras, which, as I imagine, is more than human and

of very ancient date, and may be as old as Simonides or even older. Learned as you are

in many things, you appear to know nothing of this; but I know, for I am a disciple of his.

And now, if I am not mistaken, you do not understand the word 'hard' (chalepon) in the

sense which Simonides intended; and I must correct you, as Prodicus corrects me when I

use the word 'awful' (deinon) as a term of praise. If I say that Protagoras or any one else

is an 'awfully' wise man, he asks me if I am not ashamed of calling that which is good

'awful'; and then he explains to me that the term 'awful' is always taken in a bad sense,

and that no one speaks of being 'awfully' healthy or wealthy, or of 'awful' peace, but of

'awful' disease, 'awful' war, 'awful' poverty, meaning by the term 'awful,' evil. And I think

that Simonides and his countrymen the Ceans, when they spoke of 'hard' meant 'evil,' or

something which you do not understand. Let us ask Prodicus, for he ought to be able to

answer questions about the dialect of Simonides. What did he mean, Prodicus, by the

term 'hard'?

Evil, said Prodicus.

And therefore, I said, Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying, 'Hard is the good,' just as if

that were equivalent to saying, Evil is the good.

Yes, he said, that was certainly his meaning; and he is twitting Pittacus with ignorance of

the use of terms, which in a Lesbian, who has been accustomed to speak a barbarous

language, is natural.

Do you hear, Protagoras, I asked, what our friend Prodicus is saying? And have you an

answer for him?

You are entirely mistaken, Prodicus, said Protagoras; and I know very well that

Simonides in using the word 'hard' meant what all of us mean, not evil, but that which is

not easy—that which takes a great deal of trouble: of this I am positive.

I said: I also incline to believe, Protagoras, that this was the meaning of Simonides, of

which our friend Prodicus was very well aware, but he thought that he would make fun,

and try if you could maintain your thesis; for that Simonides could never have meant the

other is clearly proved by the context, in which he says that God only has this gift. Now

he cannot surely mean to say that to be good is evil, when he afterwards proceeds to

say that God only has this gift, and that this is the attribute of him and of no other. For if

this be his meaning, Prodicus would impute to Simonides a character of recklessness

which is very unlike his countrymen. And I should like to tell you, I said, what I imagine

to be the real meaning of Simonides in this poem, if you will test what, in your way of

speaking, would be called my skill in poetry; or if you would rather, I will be the listener.

To this proposal Protagoras replied: As you please;—and Hippias, Prodicus, and the

others told me by all means to do as I proposed.

Then now, I said, I will endeavour to explain to you my opinion about this poem of

Simonides. There is a very ancient philosophy which is more cultivated in Crete and

Lacedaemon than in any other part of Hellas, and there are more philosophers in those

countries than anywhere else in the world. This, however, is a secret which the

Lacedaemonians deny; and they pretend to be ignorant, just because they do not wish

to have it thought that they rule the world by wisdom, like the Sophists of whom

Protagoras was speaking, and not by valour of arms; considering that if the reason of

their superiority were disclosed, all men would be practising their wisdom. And this

secret of theirs has never been discovered by the imitators of Lacedaemonian fashions

in other cities, who go about with their ears bruised in imitation of them, and have the

caestus bound on their arms, and are always in training, and wear short cloaks; for they

imagine that these are the practices which have enabled the Lacedaemonians to

conquer the other Hellenes. Now when the Lacedaemonians want to unbend and hold

free conversation with their wise men, and are no longer satisfied with mere secret

intercourse, they drive out all these laconizers, and any other foreigners who may

happen to be in their country, and they hold a philosophical seance unknown to

strangers; and they themselves forbid their young men to go out into other cities—in

this they are like the Cretans— in order that they may not unlearn the lessons which

they have taught them. And in Lacedaemon and Crete not only men but also women

have a pride in their high cultivation. And hereby you may know that I am right in

attributing to the Lacedaemonians this excellence in philosophy and speculation: If a

man converses with the most ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him seldom good for

much in general conversation, but at any point in the discourse he will be darting out

some notable saying, terse and full of meaning, with unerring aim; and the person with

whom he is talking seems to be like a child in his hands. And many of our own age and

of former ages have noted that the true Lacedaemonian type of character has the love

of philosophy even stronger than the love of gymnastics; they are conscious that only a

perfectly educated man is capable of uttering such expressions. Such were Thales of

Miletus, and Pittacus of Mitylene, and Bias of Priene, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus

the Lindian, and Myson the Chenian; and seventh in the catalogue of wise men was the

Lacedaemonian Chilo. All these were lovers and emulators and disciples of the culture of

the Lacedaemonians, and any one may perceive that their wisdom was of this character;

consisting of short memorable sentences, which they severally uttered. And they met

together and dedicated in the temple of Apollo at Delphi, as the first-fruits of their

wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions, which are in all men's mouths—'Know thyself,' and

'Nothing too much.'

Why do I say all this? I am explaining that this Lacedaemonian brevity was the style of

primitive philosophy. Now there was a saying of Pittacus which was privately circulated

and received the approbation of the wise, 'Hard is it to be good.' And Simonides, who

was ambitious of the fame of wisdom, was aware that if he could overthrow this saying,

then, as if he had won a victory over some famous athlete, he would carry off the palm

among his contemporaries. And if I am not mistaken, he composed the entire poem

with the secret intention of damaging Pittacus and his saying.

Let us all unite in examining his words, and see whether I am speaking the truth.

Simonides must have been a lunatic, if, in the very first words of the poem, wanting to

say only that to become good is hard, he inserted (Greek) 'on the one hand' ('on the one

hand to become good is hard'); there would be no reason for the introduction of

(Greek), unless you suppose him to speak with a hostile reference to the words of

Pittacus. Pittacus is saying 'Hard is it to be good,' and he, in refutation of this thesis,

rejoins that the truly hard thing, Pittacus, is to become good, not joining 'truly' with

'good,' but with 'hard.' Not, that the hard thing is to be truly good, as though there were

some truly good men, and there were others who were good but not truly good (this

would be a very simple observation, and quite unworthy of Simonides); but you must

suppose him to make a trajection of the word 'truly' (Greek), construing the saying of

Pittacus thus (and let us imagine Pittacus to be speaking and Simonides answering him):

'O my friends,' says Pittacus, 'hard is it to be good,' and Simonides answers, 'In that,

Pittacus, you are mistaken; the difficulty is not to be good, but on the one hand, to

become good, four-square in hands and feet and mind, without a flaw—that is hard

truly.' This way of reading the passage accounts for the insertion of (Greek) 'on the one

hand,' and for the position at the end of the clause of the word 'truly,' and all that

follows shows this to be the meaning. A great deal might be said in praise of the details

of the poem, which is a charming piece of workmanship, and very finished, but such

minutiae would be tedious. I should like, however, to point out the general intention of

the poem, which is certainly designed in every part to be a refutation of the saying of

Pittacus. For he speaks in what follows a little further on as if he meant to argue that

although there is a difficulty in becoming good, yet this is possible for a time, and only

for a time. But having become good, to remain in a good state and be good, as you,

Pittacus, affirm, is not possible, and is not granted to man; God only has this blessing;

'but man cannot help being bad when the force of circumstances overpowers him.' Now

whom does the force of circumstance overpower in the command of a vessel?— not the

private individual, for he is always overpowered; and as one who is already prostrate

cannot be overthrown, and only he who is standing upright but not he who is prostrate

can be laid prostrate, so the force of circumstances can only overpower him who, at

some time or other, has resources, and not him who is at all times helpless. The descent

of a great storm may make the pilot helpless, or the severity of the season the

husbandman or the physician; for the good may become bad, as another poet

witnesses:—

'The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad.'

But the bad does not become bad; he is always bad. So that when the force of

circumstances overpowers the man of resources and skill and virtue, then he cannot

help being bad. And you, Pittacus, are saying, 'Hard is it to be good.' Now there is a

difficulty in becoming good; and yet this is possible: but to be good is an impossibility—

'For he who does well is the good man, and he who does ill is the bad.'

But what sort of doing is good in letters? and what sort of doing makes a man good in

letters? Clearly the knowing of them. And what sort of well- doing makes a man a good

physician? Clearly the knowledge of the art of healing the sick. 'But he who does ill is the

bad.' Now who becomes a bad physician? Clearly he who is in the first place a physician,

and in the second place a good physician; for he may become a bad one also: but none

of us unskilled individuals can by any amount of doing ill become physicians, any more

than we can become carpenters or anything of that sort; and he who by doing ill cannot

become a physician at all, clearly cannot become a bad physician. In like manner the

good may become deteriorated by time, or toil, or disease, or other accident (the only

real doing ill is to be deprived of knowledge), but the bad man will never become bad,

for he is always bad; and if he were to become bad, he must previously have been good.

Thus the words of the poem tend to show that on the one hand a man cannot be

continuously good, but that he may become good and may also become bad; and again

that

'They are the best for the longest time whom the gods love.'

All this relates to Pittacus, as is further proved by the sequel. For he adds:—

'Therefore I will not throw away my span of life to no purpose in searching after the

impossible, hoping in vain to find a perfectly faultless man among those who partake of

the fruit of the broad-bosomed earth: if I find him, I will send you word.'

(this is the vehement way in which he pursues his attack upon Pittacus throughout the

whole poem):

'But him who does no evil, voluntarily I praise and love;—not even the gods war against

necessity.'

All this has a similar drift, for Simonides was not so ignorant as to say that he praised

those who did no evil voluntarily, as though there were some who did evil voluntarily.

For no wise man, as I believe, will allow that any human being errs voluntarily, or

voluntarily does evil and dishonourable actions; but they are very well aware that all who

do evil and dishonourable things do them against their will. And Simonides never says

that he praises him who does no evil voluntarily; the word 'voluntarily' applies to

himself. For he was under the impression that a good man might often compel himself

to love and praise another, and to be the friend and approver of another; and that there

might be an involuntary love, such as a man might feel to an unnatural father or mother,

or country, or the like. Now bad men, when their parents or country have any defects,

look on them with malignant joy, and find fault with them and expose and denounce

them to others, under the idea that the rest of mankind will be less likely to take

themselves to task and accuse them of neglect; and they blame their defects far more

than they deserve, in order that the odium which is necessarily incurred by them may be

increased: but the good man dissembles his feelings, and constrains himself to praise

them; and if they have wronged him and he is angry, he pacifies his anger and is

reconciled, and compels himself to love and praise his own flesh and blood. And

Simonides, as is probable, considered that he himself had often had to praise and

magnify a tyrant or the like, much against his will, and he also wishes to imply to

Pittacus that he does not censure him because he is censorious.

'For I am satisfied' he says, 'when a man is neither bad nor very stupid; and when he

knows justice (which is the health of states), and is of sound mind, I will find no fault

with him, for I am not given to finding fault, and there are innumerable fools'

(implying that if he delighted in censure he might have abundant opportunity of finding

fault).

'All things are good with which evil is unmingled.'

In these latter words he does not mean to say that all things are good which have no

evil in them, as you might say 'All things are white which have no black in them,' for that

would be ridiculous; but he means to say that he accepts and finds no fault with the

moderate or intermediate state.

('I do not hope' he says, 'to find a perfectly blameless man among those who partake of

the fruits of the broad-bosomed earth (if I find him, I will send you word); in this sense I

praise no man. But he who is moderately good, and does no evil, is good enough for

me, who love and approve every one')

(and here observe that he uses a Lesbian word, epainemi (approve), because he is

addressing Pittacus,

'Who love and APPROVE every one VOLUNTARILY, who does no evil:'

and that the stop should be put after 'voluntarily'); 'but there are some whom I

involuntarily praise and love. And you, Pittacus, I would never have blamed, if you had

spoken what was moderately good and true; but I do blame you because, putting on

the appearance of truth, you are speaking falsely about the highest matters.'—And this, I

said, Prodicus and Protagoras, I take to be the meaning of Simonides in this poem.

Hippias said: I think, Socrates, that you have given a very good explanation of the poem;

but I have also an excellent interpretation of my own which I will propound to you, if

you will allow me.

Nay, Hippias, said Alcibiades; not now, but at some other time. At present we must

abide by the compact which was made between Socrates and Protagoras, to the effect

that as long as Protagoras is willing to ask, Socrates should answer; or that if he would

rather answer, then that Socrates should ask.

I said: I wish Protagoras either to ask or answer as he is inclined; but I would rather have

done with poems and odes, if he does not object, and come back to the question about

which I was asking you at first, Protagoras, and by your help make an end of that. The

talk about the poets seems to me like a commonplace entertainment to which a vulgar

company have recourse; who, because they are not able to converse or amuse one

another, while they are drinking, with the sound of their own voices and conversation,

by reason of their stupidity, raise the price of flute-girls in the market, hiring for a great

sum the voice of a flute instead of their own breath, to be the medium of intercourse

among them: but where the company are real gentlemen and men of education, you

will see no flute-girls, nor dancing- girls, nor harp-girls; and they have no nonsense or

games, but are contented with one another's conversation, of which their own voices are

the medium, and which they carry on by turns and in an orderly manner, even though

they are very liberal in their potations. And a company like this of ours, and men such as

we profess to be, do not require the help of another's voice, or of the poets whom you

cannot interrogate about the meaning of what they are saying; people who cite them

declaring, some that the poet has one meaning, and others that he has another, and the

point which is in dispute can never be decided. This sort of entertainment they decline,

and prefer to talk with one another, and put one another to the proof in conversation.

And these are the models which I desire that you and I should imitate. Leaving the

poets, and keeping to ourselves, let us try the mettle of one another and make proof of

the truth in conversation. If you have a mind to ask, I am ready to answer; or if you

would rather, do you answer, and give me the opportunity of resuming and completing

our unfinished argument.

I made these and some similar observations; but Protagoras would not distinctly say

which he would do. Thereupon Alcibiades turned to Callias, and said:—Do you think,

Callias, that Protagoras is fair in refusing to say whether he will or will not answer? for I

certainly think that he is unfair; he ought either to proceed with the argument, or

distinctly refuse to proceed, that we may know his intention; and then Socrates will be

able to discourse with some one else, and the rest of the company will be free to talk

with one another.

I think that Protagoras was really made ashamed by these words of Alcibiades, and

when the prayers of Callias and the company were superadded, he was at last induced

to argue, and said that I might ask and he would answer.

So I said: Do not imagine, Protagoras, that I have any other interest in asking questions

of you but that of clearing up my own difficulties. For I think that Homer was very right

in saying that

'When two go together, one sees before the other (Il.),'

for all men who have a companion are readier in deed, word, or thought; but if a man

'Sees a thing when he is alone,'

he goes about straightway seeking until he finds some one to whom he may show his

discoveries, and who may confirm him in them. And I would rather hold discourse with

you than with any one, because I think that no man has a better understanding of most

things which a good man may be expected to understand, and in particular of virtue. For

who is there, but you?—who not only claim to be a good man and a gentleman, for

many are this, and yet have not the power of making others good—whereas you are not

only good yourself, but also the cause of goodness in others. Moreover such confidence

have you in yourself, that although other Sophists conceal their profession, you proclaim

in the face of Hellas that you are a Sophist or teacher of virtue and education, and are

the first who demanded pay in return. How then can I do otherwise than invite you to

the examination of these subjects, and ask questions and consult with you? I must,

indeed. And I should like once more to have my memory refreshed by you about the

questions which I was asking you at first, and also to have your help in considering

them. If I am not mistaken the question was this: Are wisdom and temperance and

courage and justice and holiness five names of the same thing? or has each of the

names a separate underlying essence and corresponding thing having a peculiar

function, no one of them being like any other of them? And you replied that the five

names were not the names of the same thing, but that each of them had a separate

object, and that all these objects were parts of virtue, not in the same way that the parts

of gold are like each other and the whole of which they are parts, but as the parts of the

face are unlike the whole of which they are parts and one another, and have each of

them a distinct function. I should like to know whether this is still your opinion; or if not,

I will ask you to define your meaning, and I shall not take you to task if you now make a

different statement. For I dare say that you may have said what you did only in order to

make trial of me.

I answer, Socrates, he said, that all these qualities are parts of virtue, and that four out of

the five are to some extent similar, and that the fifth of them, which is courage, is very

different from the other four, as I prove in this way: You may observe that many men are

utterly unrighteous, unholy, intemperate, ignorant, who are nevertheless remarkable for

their courage.

Stop, I said; I should like to think about that. When you speak of brave men, do you

mean the confident, or another sort of nature?

Yes, he said; I mean the impetuous, ready to go at that which others are afraid to

approach.

In the next place, you would affirm virtue to be a good thing, of which good thing you

assert yourself to be a teacher.

Yes, he said; I should say the best of all things, if I am in my right mind.

And is it partly good and partly bad, I said, or wholly good?

Wholly good, and in the highest degree.

Tell me then; who are they who have confidence when diving into a well?

I should say, the divers.

And the reason of this is that they have knowledge?

Yes, that is the reason.

And who have confidence when fighting on horseback—the skilled horseman or the

unskilled?

The skilled.

And who when fighting with light shields—the peltasts or the nonpeltasts?

The peltasts. And that is true of all other things, he said, if that is your point: those who

have knowledge are more confident than those who have no knowledge, and they are

more confident after they have learned than before.

And have you not seen persons utterly ignorant, I said, of these things, and yet

confident about them?

Yes, he said, I have seen such persons far too confident.

And are not these confident persons also courageous?

In that case, he replied, courage would be a base thing, for the men of whom we are

speaking are surely madmen.

Then who are the courageous? Are they not the confident?

Yes, he said; to that statement I adhere.

And those, I said, who are thus confident without knowledge are really not courageous,

but mad; and in that case the wisest are also the most confident, and being the most

confident are also the bravest, and upon that view again wisdom will be courage.

Nay, Socrates, he replied, you are mistaken in your remembrance of what was said by

me. When you asked me, I certainly did say that the courageous are the confident; but I

was never asked whether the confident are the courageous; if you had asked me, I

should have answered 'Not all of them': and what I did answer you have not proved to

be false, although you proceeded to show that those who have knowledge are more

courageous than they were before they had knowledge, and more courageous than

others who have no knowledge, and were then led on to think that courage is the same

as wisdom. But in this way of arguing you might come to imagine that strength is

wisdom. You might begin by asking whether the strong are able, and I should say 'Yes';

and then whether those who know how to wrestle are not more able to wrestle than

those who do not know how to wrestle, and more able after than before they had

learned, and I should assent. And when I had admitted this, you might use my

admissions in such a way as to prove that upon my view wisdom is strength; whereas in

that case I should not have admitted, any more than in the other, that the able are

strong, although I have admitted that the strong are able. For there is a difference

between ability and strength; the former is given by knowledge as well as by madness or

rage, but strength comes from nature and a healthy state of the body. And in like

manner I say of confidence and courage, that they are not the same; and I argue that

the courageous are confident, but not all the confident courageous. For confidence may

be given to men by art, and also, like ability, by madness and rage; but courage comes

to them from nature and the healthy state of the soul.

I said: You would admit, Protagoras, that some men live well and others ill?

He assented.

And do you think that a man lives well who lives in pain and grief?

He does not.

But if he lives pleasantly to the end of his life, will he not in that case have lived well?

He will.

Then to live pleasantly is a good, and to live unpleasantly an evil?

Yes, he said, if the pleasure be good and honourable.

And do you, Protagoras, like the rest of the world, call some pleasant things evil and

some painful things good?—for I am rather disposed to say that things are good in as

far as they are pleasant, if they have no consequences of another sort, and in as far as

they are painful they are bad.

I do not know, Socrates, he said, whether I can venture to assert in that unqualified

manner that the pleasant is the good and the painful the evil. Having regard not only to

my present answer, but also to the whole of my life, I shall be safer, if I am not mistaken,

in saying that there are some pleasant things which are not good, and that there are

some painful things which are good, and some which are not good, and that there are

some which are neither good nor evil.

And you would call pleasant, I said, the things which participate in pleasure or create

pleasure?

Certainly, he said.

Then my meaning is, that in as far as they are pleasant they are good; and my question

would imply that pleasure is a good in itself.

According to your favourite mode of speech, Socrates, 'Let us reflect about this,' he said;

and if the reflection is to the point, and the result proves that pleasure and good are

really the same, then we will agree; but if not, then we will argue.

And would you wish to begin the enquiry? I said; or shall I begin?

You ought to take the lead, he said; for you are the author of the discussion.

May I employ an illustration? I said. Suppose some one who is enquiring into the health

or some other bodily quality of another:—he looks at his face and at the tips of his

fingers, and then he says, Uncover your chest and back to me that I may have a better

view:—that is the sort of thing which I desire in this speculation. Having seen what your

opinion is about good and pleasure, I am minded to say to you: Uncover your mind to

me, Protagoras, and reveal your opinion about knowledge, that I may know whether you

agree with the rest of the world. Now the rest of the world are of opinion that

knowledge is a principle not of strength, or of rule, or of command: their notion is that a

man may have knowledge, and yet that the knowledge which is in him may be

overmastered by anger, or pleasure, or pain, or love, or perhaps by fear,—just as if

knowledge were a slave, and might be dragged about anyhow. Now is that your view?

or do you think that knowledge is a noble and commanding thing, which cannot be

overcome, and will not allow a man, if he only knows the difference of good and evil, to

do anything which is contrary to knowledge, but that wisdom will have strength to help

him?

I agree with you, Socrates, said Protagoras; and not only so, but I, above all other men,

am bound to say that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human things.

Good, I said, and true. But are you aware that the majority of the world are of another

mind; and that men are commonly supposed to know the things which are best, and not

to do them when they might? And most persons whom I have asked the reason of this

have said that when men act contrary to knowledge they are overcome by pain, or

pleasure, or some of those affections which I was just now mentioning.

Yes, Socrates, he replied; and that is not the only point about which mankind are in

error.

Suppose, then, that you and I endeavour to instruct and inform them what is the nature

of this affection which they call 'being overcome by pleasure,' and which they affirm to

be the reason why they do not always do what is best. When we say to them: Friends,

you are mistaken, and are saying what is not true, they would probably reply: Socrates

and Protagoras, if this affection of the soul is not to be called 'being overcome by

pleasure,' pray, what is it, and by what name would you describe it?

But why, Socrates, should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the many, who just

say anything that happens to occur to them?

I believe, I said, that they may be of use in helping us to discover how courage is related

to the other parts of virtue. If you are disposed to abide by our agreement, that I should

show the way in which, as I think, our recent difficulty is most likely to be cleared up, do

you follow; but if not, never mind.

You are quite right, he said; and I would have you proceed as you have begun.

Well then, I said, let me suppose that they repeat their question, What account do you

give of that which, in our way of speaking, is termed being overcome by pleasure? I

should answer thus: Listen, and Protagoras and I will endeavour to show you. When men

are overcome by eating and drinking and other sensual desires which are pleasant, and

they, knowing them to be evil, nevertheless indulge in them, would you not say that

they were overcome by pleasure? They will not deny this. And suppose that you and I

were to go on and ask them again: 'In what way do you say that they are evil,—in that

they are pleasant and give pleasure at the moment, or because they cause disease and

poverty and other like evils in the future? Would they still be evil, if they had no

attendant evil consequences, simply because they give the consciousness of pleasure of

whatever nature?'—Would they not answer that they are not evil on account of the

pleasure which is immediately given by them, but on account of the after

consequences—diseases and the like?

I believe, said Protagoras, that the world in general would answer as you do.

And in causing diseases do they not cause pain? and in causing poverty do they not

cause pain;—they would agree to that also, if I am not mistaken?

Protagoras assented.

Then I should say to them, in my name and yours: Do you think them evil for any other

reason, except because they end in pain and rob us of other pleasures:—there again

they would agree?

We both of us thought that they would.

And then I should take the question from the opposite point of view, and say: 'Friends,

when you speak of goods being painful, do you not mean remedial goods, such as

gymnastic exercises, and military service, and the physician's use of burning, cutting,

drugging, and starving? Are these the things which are good but painful?'—they would

assent to me?

He agreed.

'And do you call them good because they occasion the greatest immediate suffering

and pain; or because, afterwards, they bring health and improvement of the bodily

condition and the salvation of states and power over others and wealth?'—they would

agree to the latter alternative, if I am not mistaken?

He assented.

'Are these things good for any other reason except that they end in pleasure, and get rid

of and avert pain? Are you looking to any other standard but pleasure and pain when

you call them good?'—they would acknowledge that they were not?

I think so, said Protagoras.

'And do you not pursue after pleasure as a good, and avoid pain as an evil?'

He assented.

'Then you think that pain is an evil and pleasure is a good: and even pleasure you deem

an evil, when it robs you of greater pleasures than it gives, or causes pains greater than

the pleasure. If, however, you call pleasure an evil in relation to some other end or

standard, you will be able to show us that standard. But you have none to show.'

I do not think that they have, said Protagoras.

'And have you not a similar way of speaking about pain? You call pain a good when it

takes away greater pains than those which it has, or gives pleasures greater than the

pains: then if you have some standard other than pleasure and pain to which you refer

when you call actual pain a good, you can show what that is. But you cannot.'

True, said Protagoras.

Suppose again, I said, that the world says to me: 'Why do you spend many words and

speak in many ways on this subject?' Excuse me, friends, I should reply; but in the first

place there is a difficulty in explaining the meaning of the expression 'overcome by

pleasure'; and the whole argument turns upon this. And even now, if you see any

possible way in which evil can be explained as other than pain, or good as other than

pleasure, you may still retract. Are you satisfied, then, at having a life of pleasure which

is without pain? If you are, and if you are unable to show any good or evil which does

not end in pleasure and pain, hear the consequences:—If what you say is true, then the

argument is absurd which affirms that a man often does evil knowingly, when he might

abstain, because he is seduced and overpowered by pleasure; or again, when you say

that a man knowingly refuses to do what is good because he is overcome at the

moment by pleasure. And that this is ridiculous will be evident if only we give up the use

of various names, such as pleasant and painful, and good and evil. As there are two

things, let us call them by two names— first, good and evil, and then pleasant and

painful. Assuming this, let us go on to say that a man does evil knowing that he does

evil. But some one will ask, Why? Because he is overcome, is the first answer. And by

what is he overcome? the enquirer will proceed to ask. And we shall not be able to reply

'By pleasure,' for the name of pleasure has been exchanged for that of good. In our

answer, then, we shall only say that he is overcome. 'By what?' he will reiterate. By the

good, we shall have to reply; indeed we shall. Nay, but our questioner will rejoin with a

laugh, if he be one of the swaggering sort, 'That is too ridiculous, that a man should do

what he knows to be evil when he ought not, because he is overcome by good. Is that,

he will ask, because the good was worthy or not worthy of conquering the evil'? And in

answer to that we shall clearly reply, Because it was not worthy; for if it had been worthy,

then he who, as we say, was overcome by pleasure, would not have been wrong. 'But

how,' he will reply, 'can the good be unworthy of the evil, or the evil of the good'? Is not

the real explanation that they are out of proportion to one another, either as greater

and smaller, or more and fewer? This we cannot deny. And when you speak of being

overcome—'what do you mean,' he will say, 'but that you choose the greater evil in

exchange for the lesser good?' Admitted. And now substitute the names of pleasure and

pain for good and evil, and say, not as before, that a man does what is evil knowingly,

but that he does what is painful knowingly, and because he is overcome by pleasure,

which is unworthy to overcome. What measure is there of the relations of pleasure to

pain other than excess and defect, which means that they become greater and smaller,

and more and fewer, and differ in degree? For if any one says: 'Yes, Socrates, but

immediate pleasure differs widely from future pleasure and pain'—To that I should

reply: And do they differ in anything but in pleasure and pain? There can be no other

measure of them. And do you, like a skilful weigher, put into the balance the pleasures

and the pains, and their nearness and distance, and weigh them, and then say which

outweighs the other. If you weigh pleasures against pleasures, you of course take the

more and greater; or if you weigh pains against pains, you take the fewer and the less;

or if pleasures against pains, then you choose that course of action in which the painful

is exceeded by the pleasant, whether the distant by the near or the near by the distant;

and you avoid that course of action in which the pleasant is exceeded by the painful.

Would you not admit, my friends, that this is true? I am confident that they cannot deny

this.

He agreed with me.

Well then, I shall say, if you agree so far, be so good as to answer me a question: Do not

the same magnitudes appear larger to your sight when near, and smaller when at a

distance? They will acknowledge that. And the same holds of thickness and number; also

sounds, which are in themselves equal, are greater when near, and lesser when at a

distance. They will grant that also. Now suppose happiness to consist in doing or

choosing the greater, and in not doing or in avoiding the less, what would be the saving

principle of human life? Would not the art of measuring be the saving principle; or

would the power of appearance? Is not the latter that deceiving art which makes us

wander up and down and take the things at one time of which we repent at another,

both in our actions and in our choice of things great and small? But the art of

measurement would do away with the effect of appearances, and, showing the truth,

would fain teach the soul at last to find rest in the truth, and would thus save our life.

Would not mankind generally acknowledge that the art which accomplishes this result is

the art of measurement?

Yes, he said, the art of measurement.

Suppose, again, the salvation of human life to depend on the choice of odd and even,

and on the knowledge of when a man ought to choose the greater or less, either in

reference to themselves or to each other, and whether near or at a distance; what would

be the saving principle of our lives? Would not knowledge?—a knowledge of measuring,

when the question is one of excess and defect, and a knowledge of number, when the

question is of odd and even? The world will assent, will they not?

Protagoras himself thought that they would.

Well then, my friends, I say to them; seeing that the salvation of human life has been

found to consist in the right choice of pleasures and pains, —in the choice of the more

and the fewer, and the greater and the less, and the nearer and remoter, must not this

measuring be a consideration of their excess and defect and equality in relation to each

other?

This is undeniably true.

And this, as possessing measure, must undeniably also be an art and science?

They will agree, he said.

The nature of that art or science will be a matter of future consideration; but the

existence of such a science furnishes a demonstrative answer to the question which you

asked of me and Protagoras. At the time when you asked the question, if you

remember, both of us were agreeing that there was nothing mightier than knowledge,

and that knowledge, in whatever existing, must have the advantage over pleasure and

all other things; and then you said that pleasure often got the advantage even over a

man who has knowledge; and we refused to allow this, and you rejoined: O Protagoras

and Socrates, what is the meaning of being overcome by pleasure if not this?—tell us

what you call such a state:—if we had immediately and at the time answered

'Ignorance,' you would have laughed at us. But now, in laughing at us, you will be

laughing at yourselves: for you also admitted that men err in their choice of pleasures

and pains; that is, in their choice of good and evil, from defect of knowledge; and you

admitted further, that they err, not only from defect of knowledge in general, but of that

particular knowledge which is called measuring. And you are also aware that the erring

act which is done without knowledge is done in ignorance. This, therefore, is the

meaning of being overcome by pleasure; —ignorance, and that the greatest. And our

friends Protagoras and Prodicus and Hippias declare that they are the physicians of

ignorance; but you, who are under the mistaken impression that ignorance is not the

cause, and that the art of which I am speaking cannot be taught, neither go yourselves,

nor send your children, to the Sophists, who are the teachers of these things—you take

care of your money and give them none; and the result is, that you are the worse off

both in public and private life:—Let us suppose this to be our answer to the world in

general: And now I should like to ask you, Hippias, and you, Prodicus, as well as

Protagoras (for the argument is to be yours as well as ours), whether you think that I am

speaking the truth or not?

They all thought that what I said was entirely true.

Then you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good, and the painful evil. And here I

would beg my friend Prodicus not to introduce his distinction of names, whether he is

disposed to say pleasurable, delightful, joyful. However, by whatever name he prefers to

call them, I will ask you, most excellent Prodicus, to answer in my sense of the words.

Prodicus laughed and assented, as did the others.

Then, my friends, what do you say to this? Are not all actions honourable and useful, of

which the tendency is to make life painless and pleasant? The honourable work is also

useful and good?

This was admitted.

Then, I said, if the pleasant is the good, nobody does anything under the idea or

conviction that some other thing would be better and is also attainable, when he might

do the better. And this inferiority of a man to himself is merely ignorance, as the

superiority of a man to himself is wisdom.

They all assented.

And is not ignorance the having a false opinion and being deceived about important

matters?

To this also they unanimously assented.

Then, I said, no man voluntarily pursues evil, or that which he thinks to be evil. To prefer

evil to good is not in human nature; and when a man is compelled to choose one of two

evils, no one will choose the greater when he may have the less.

All of us agreed to every word of this.

Well, I said, there is a certain thing called fear or terror; and here, Prodicus, I should

particularly like to know whether you would agree with me in defining this fear or terror

as expectation of evil.

Protagoras and Hippias agreed, but Prodicus said that this was fear and not terror.

Never mind, Prodicus, I said; but let me ask whether, if our former assertions are true, a

man will pursue that which he fears when he is not compelled? Would not this be in flat

contradiction to the admission which has been already made, that he thinks the things

which he fears to be evil; and no one will pursue or voluntarily accept that which he

thinks to be evil?

That also was universally admitted.

Then, I said, these, Hippias and Prodicus, are our premisses; and I would beg Protagoras

to explain to us how he can be right in what he said at first. I do not mean in what he

said quite at first, for his first statement, as you may remember, was that whereas there

were five parts of virtue none of them was like any other of them; each of them had a

separate function. To this, however, I am not referring, but to the assertion which he

afterwards made that of the five virtues four were nearly akin to each other, but that the

fifth, which was courage, differed greatly from the others. And of this he gave me the

following proof. He said: You will find, Socrates, that some of the most impious, and

unrighteous, and intemperate, and ignorant of men are among the most courageous;

which proves that courage is very different from the other parts of virtue. I was surprised

at his saying this at the time, and I am still more surprised now that I have discussed the

matter with you. So I asked him whether by the brave he meant the confident. Yes, he

replied, and the impetuous or goers. (You may remember, Protagoras, that this was your

answer.)

He assented.

Well then, I said, tell us against what are the courageous ready to go— against the same

dangers as the cowards?

No, he answered.

Then against something different?

Yes, he said.

Then do cowards go where there is safety, and the courageous where there is danger?

Yes, Socrates, so men say.

Very true, I said. But I want to know against what do you say that the courageous are

ready to go—against dangers, believing them to be dangers, or not against dangers?

No, said he; the former case has been proved by you in the previous argument to be

impossible.

That, again, I replied, is quite true. And if this has been rightly proven, then no one goes

to meet what he thinks to be dangers, since the want of self-control, which makes men

rush into dangers, has been shown to be ignorance.

He assented.

And yet the courageous man and the coward alike go to meet that about which they are

confident; so that, in this point of view, the cowardly and the courageous go to meet the

same things.

And yet, Socrates, said Protagoras, that to which the coward goes is the opposite of that

to which the courageous goes; the one, for example, is ready to go to battle, and the

other is not ready.

And is going to battle honourable or disgraceful? I said.

Honourable, he replied.

And if honourable, then already admitted by us to be good; for all honourable actions

we have admitted to be good.

That is true; and to that opinion I shall always adhere.

True, I said. But which of the two are they who, as you say, are unwilling to go to war,

which is a good and honourable thing?

The cowards, he replied.

And what is good and honourable, I said, is also pleasant?

It has certainly been acknowledged to be so, he replied.

And do the cowards knowingly refuse to go to the nobler, and pleasanter, and better?

The admission of that, he replied, would belie our former admissions.

But does not the courageous man also go to meet the better, and pleasanter, and

nobler?

That must be admitted.

And the courageous man has no base fear or base confidence?

True, he replied.

And if not base, then honourable?

He admitted this.

And if honourable, then good?

Yes.

But the fear and confidence of the coward or foolhardy or madman, on the contrary, are

base?

He assented.

And these base fears and confidences originate in ignorance and uninstructedness?

True, he said.

Then as to the motive from which the cowards act, do you call it cowardice or courage?

I should say cowardice, he replied.

And have they not been shown to be cowards through their ignorance of dangers?

Assuredly, he said.

And because of that ignorance they are cowards?

He assented.

And the reason why they are cowards is admitted by you to be cowardice?

He again assented.

Then the ignorance of what is and is not dangerous is cowardice?

He nodded assent.

But surely courage, I said, is opposed to cowardice?

Yes.

Then the wisdom which knows what are and are not dangers is opposed to the

ignorance of them?

To that again he nodded assent.

And the ignorance of them is cowardice?

To that he very reluctantly nodded assent.

And the knowledge of that which is and is not dangerous is courage, and is opposed to

the ignorance of these things?

At this point he would no longer nod assent, but was silent.

And why, I said, do you neither assent nor dissent, Protagoras?

Finish the argument by yourself, he said.

I only want to ask one more question, I said. I want to know whether you still think that

there are men who are most ignorant and yet most courageous?

You seem to have a great ambition to make me answer, Socrates, and therefore I will

gratify you, and say, that this appears to me to be impossible consistently with the

argument.

My only object, I said, in continuing the discussion, has been the desire to ascertain the

nature and relations of virtue; for if this were clear, I am very sure that the other

controversy which has been carried on at great length by both of us—you affirming and

I denying that virtue can be taught—would also become clear. The result of our

discussion appears to me to be singular. For if the argument had a human voice, that

voice would be heard laughing at us and saying: 'Protagoras and Socrates, you are

strange beings; there are you, Socrates, who were saying that virtue cannot be taught,

contradicting yourself now by your attempt to prove that all things are knowledge,

including justice, and temperance, and courage,— which tends to show that virtue can

certainly be taught; for if virtue were other than knowledge, as Protagoras attempted to

prove, then clearly virtue cannot be taught; but if virtue is entirely knowledge, as you are

seeking to show, then I cannot but suppose that virtue is capable of being taught.

Protagoras, on the other hand, who started by saying that it might be taught, is now

eager to prove it to be anything rather than knowledge; and if this is true, it must be

quite incapable of being taught.' Now I, Protagoras, perceiving this terrible confusion of

our ideas, have a great desire that they should be cleared up. And I should like to carry

on the discussion until we ascertain what virtue is, whether capable of being taught or

not, lest haply Epimetheus should trip us up and deceive us in the argument, as he

forgot us in the story; I prefer your Prometheus to your Epimetheus, for of him I make

use, whenever I am busy about these questions, in Promethean care of my own life. And

if you have no objection, as I said at first, I should like to have your help in the enquiry.

Protagoras replied: Socrates, I am not of a base nature, and I am the last man in the

world to be envious. I cannot but applaud your energy and your conduct of an

argument. As I have often said, I admire you above all men whom I know, and far above

all men of your age; and I believe that you will become very eminent in philosophy. Let

us come back to the subject at some future time; at present we had better turn to

something else.

By all means, I said, if that is your wish; for I too ought long since to have kept the

engagement of which I spoke before, and only tarried because I could not refuse the

request of the noble Callias. So the conversation ended, and we went our way.

The end

MENO

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Meno, Socrates, A Slave of Meno (Boy), Anytus.

MENO: Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is acquired by teaching or by practice;

or if neither by teaching nor by practice, then whether it comes to man by nature, or in

what other way?

SOCRATES: O Meno, there was a time when the Thessalians were famous among the

other Hellenes only for their riches and their riding; but now, if I am not mistaken, they

are equally famous for their wisdom, especially at Larisa, which is the native city of your

friend Aristippus. And this is Gorgias' doing; for when he came there, the flower of the

Aleuadae, among them your admirer Aristippus, and the other chiefs of the Thessalians,

fell in love with his wisdom. And he has taught you the habit of answering questions in a

grand and bold style, which becomes those who know, and is the style in which he

himself answers all comers; and any Hellene who likes may ask him anything. How

different is our lot! my dear Meno. Here at Athens there is a dearth of the commodity,

and all wisdom seems to have emigrated from us to you. I am certain that if you were to

ask any Athenian whether virtue was natural or acquired, he would laugh in your face,

and say: 'Stranger, you have far too good an opinion of me, if you think that I can

answer your question. For I literally do not know what virtue is, and much less whether it

is acquired by teaching or not.' And I myself, Meno, living as I do in this region of

poverty, am as poor as the rest of the world; and I confess with shame that I know

literally nothing about virtue; and when I do not know the 'quid' of anything how can I

know the 'quale'? How, if I knew nothing at all of Meno, could I tell if he was fair, or the

opposite of fair; rich and noble, or the reverse of rich and noble? Do you think that I

could?

MENO: No, indeed. But are you in earnest, Socrates, in saying that you do not know

what virtue is? And am I to carry back this report of you to Thessaly?

SOCRATES: Not only that, my dear boy, but you may say further that I have never known

of any one else who did, in my judgment.

MENO: Then you have never met Gorgias when he was at Athens?

SOCRATES: Yes, I have.

MENO: And did you not think that he knew?

SOCRATES: I have not a good memory, Meno, and therefore I cannot now tell what I

thought of him at the time. And I dare say that he did know, and that you know what he

said: please, therefore, to remind me of what he said; or, if you would rather, tell me

your own view; for I suspect that you and he think much alike.

MENO: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then as he is not here, never mind him, and do you tell me: By the gods,

Meno, be generous, and tell me what you say that virtue is; for I shall be truly delighted

to find that I have been mistaken, and that you and Gorgias do really have this

knowledge; although I have been just saying that I have never found anybody who had.

MENO: There will be no difficulty, Socrates, in answering your question. Let us take first

the virtue of a man—he should know how to administer the state, and in the

administration of it to benefit his friends and harm his enemies; and he must also be

careful not to suffer harm himself. A woman's virtue, if you wish to know about that,

may also be easily described: her duty is to order her house, and keep what is indoors,

and obey her husband. Every age, every condition of life, young or old, male or female,

bond or free, has a different virtue: there are virtues numberless, and no lack of

definitions of them; for virtue is relative to the actions and ages of each of us in all that

we do. And the same may be said of vice, Socrates (Compare Arist. Pol.).

SOCRATES: How fortunate I am, Meno! When I ask you for one virtue, you present me

with a swarm of them (Compare Theaet.), which are in your keeping. Suppose that I

carry on the figure of the swarm, and ask of you, What is the nature of the bee? and you

answer that there are many kinds of bees, and I reply: But do bees differ as bees,

because there are many and different kinds of them; or are they not rather to be

distinguished by some other quality, as for example beauty, size, or shape? How would

you answer me?

MENO: I should answer that bees do not differ from one another, as bees.

SOCRATES: And if I went on to say: That is what I desire to know, Meno; tell me what is

the quality in which they do not differ, but are all alike;—would you be able to answer?

MENO: I should.

SOCRATES: And so of the virtues, however many and different they may be, they have all

a common nature which makes them virtues; and on this he who would answer the

question, 'What is virtue?' would do well to have his eye fixed: Do you understand?

MENO: I am beginning to understand; but I do not as yet take hold of the question as I

could wish.

SOCRATES: When you say, Meno, that there is one virtue of a man, another of a woman,

another of a child, and so on, does this apply only to virtue, or would you say the same

of health, and size, and strength? Or is the nature of health always the same, whether in

man or woman?

MENO: I should say that health is the same, both in man and woman.

SOCRATES: And is not this true of size and strength? If a woman is strong, she will be

strong by reason of the same form and of the same strength subsisting in her which

there is in the man. I mean to say that strength, as strength, whether of man or woman,

is the same. Is there any difference?

MENO: I think not.

SOCRATES: And will not virtue, as virtue, be the same, whether in a child or in a grownup

person, in a woman or in a man?

MENO: I cannot help feeling, Socrates, that this case is different from the others.

SOCRATES: But why? Were you not saying that the virtue of a man was to order a state,

and the virtue of a woman was to order a house?

MENO: I did say so.

SOCRATES: And can either house or state or anything be well ordered without

temperance and without justice?

MENO: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Then they who order a state or a house temperately or justly order them

with temperance and justice?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then both men and women, if they are to be good men and women, must

have the same virtues of temperance and justice?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: And can either a young man or an elder one be good, if they are

intemperate and unjust?

MENO: They cannot.

SOCRATES: They must be temperate and just?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then all men are good in the same way, and by participation in the same

virtues?

MENO: Such is the inference.

SOCRATES: And they surely would not have been good in the same way, unless their

virtue had been the same?

MENO: They would not.

SOCRATES: Then now that the sameness of all virtue has been proven, try and

remember what you and Gorgias say that virtue is.

MENO: Will you have one definition of them all?

SOCRATES: That is what I am seeking.

MENO: If you want to have one definition of them all, I know not what to say, but that

virtue is the power of governing mankind.

SOCRATES: And does this definition of virtue include all virtue? Is virtue the same in a

child and in a slave, Meno? Can the child govern his father, or the slave his master; and

would he who governed be any longer a slave?

MENO: I think not, Socrates.

SOCRATES: No, indeed; there would be small reason in that. Yet once more, fair friend;

according to you, virtue is 'the power of governing;' but do you not add 'justly and not

unjustly'?

MENO: Yes, Socrates; I agree there; for justice is virtue.

SOCRATES: Would you say 'virtue,' Meno, or 'a virtue'?

MENO: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: I mean as I might say about anything; that a round, for example, is 'a figure'

and not simply 'figure,' and I should adopt this mode of speaking, because there are

other figures.

MENO: Quite right; and that is just what I am saying about virtue—that there are other

virtues as well as justice.

SOCRATES: What are they? tell me the names of them, as I would tell you the names of

the other figures if you asked me.

MENO: Courage and temperance and wisdom and magnanimity are virtues; and there

are many others.

SOCRATES: Yes, Meno; and again we are in the same case: in searching after one virtue

we have found many, though not in the same way as before; but we have been unable

to find the common virtue which runs through them all.

MENO: Why, Socrates, even now I am not able to follow you in the attempt to get at

one common notion of virtue as of other things.

SOCRATES: No wonder; but I will try to get nearer if I can, for you know that all things

have a common notion. Suppose now that some one asked you the question which I

asked before: Meno, he would say, what is figure? And if you answered 'roundness,' he

would reply to you, in my way of speaking, by asking whether you would say that

roundness is 'figure' or 'a figure;' and you would answer 'a figure.'

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And for this reason—that there are other figures?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if he proceeded to ask, What other figures are there? you would have

told him.

MENO: I should.

SOCRATES: And if he similarly asked what colour is, and you answered whiteness, and

the questioner rejoined, Would you say that whiteness is colour or a colour? you would

reply, A colour, because there are other colours as well.

MENO: I should.

SOCRATES: And if he had said, Tell me what they are?—you would have told him of

other colours which are colours just as much as whiteness.

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And suppose that he were to pursue the matter in my way, he would say:

Ever and anon we are landed in particulars, but this is not what I want; tell me then,

since you call them by a common name, and say that they are all figures, even when

opposed to one another, what is that common nature which you designate as figure—

which contains straight as well as round, and is no more one than the other—that would

be your mode of speaking?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And in speaking thus, you do not mean to say that the round is round any

more than straight, or the straight any more straight than round?

MENO: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: You only assert that the round figure is not more a figure than the straight,

or the straight than the round?

MENO: Very true.

SOCRATES: To what then do we give the name of figure? Try and answer. Suppose that

when a person asked you this question either about figure or colour, you were to reply,

Man, I do not understand what you want, or know what you are saying; he would look

rather astonished and say: Do you not understand that I am looking for the 'simile in

multis'? And then he might put the question in another form: Meno, he might say, what

is that 'simile in multis' which you call figure, and which includes not only round and

straight figures, but all? Could you not answer that question, Meno? I wish that you

would try; the attempt will be good practice with a view to the answer about virtue.

MENO: I would rather that you should answer, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Shall I indulge you?

MENO: By all means.

SOCRATES: And then you will tell me about virtue?

MENO: I will.

SOCRATES: Then I must do my best, for there is a prize to be won.

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Well, I will try and explain to you what figure is. What do you say to this

answer?—Figure is the only thing which always follows colour. Will you be satisfied with

it, as I am sure that I should be, if you would let me have a similar definition of virtue?

MENO: But, Socrates, it is such a simple answer.

SOCRATES: Why simple?

MENO: Because, according to you, figure is that which always follows colour.

(SOCRATES: Granted.)

MENO: But if a person were to say that he does not know what colour is, any more than

what figure is—what sort of answer would you have given him?

SOCRATES: I should have told him the truth. And if he were a philosopher of the eristic

and antagonistic sort, I should say to him: You have my answer, and if I am wrong, your

business is to take up the argument and refute me. But if we were friends, and were

talking as you and I are now, I should reply in a milder strain and more in the

dialectician's vein; that is to say, I should not only speak the truth, but I should make use

of premisses which the person interrogated would be willing to admit. And this is the

way in which I shall endeavour to approach you. You will acknowledge, will you not, that

there is such a thing as an end, or termination, or extremity?—all which words I use in

the same sense, although I am aware that Prodicus might draw distinctions about them:

but still you, I am sure, would speak of a thing as ended or terminated—that is all which

I am saying—not anything very difficult.

MENO: Yes, I should; and I believe that I understand your meaning.

SOCRATES: And you would speak of a surface and also of a solid, as for example in

geometry.

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Well then, you are now in a condition to understand my definition of figure.

I define figure to be that in which the solid ends; or, more concisely, the limit of solid.

MENO: And now, Socrates, what is colour?

SOCRATES: You are outrageous, Meno, in thus plaguing a poor old man to give you an

answer, when you will not take the trouble of remembering what is Gorgias' definition of

virtue.

MENO: When you have told me what I ask, I will tell you, Socrates.

SOCRATES: A man who was blindfolded has only to hear you talking, and he would

know that you are a fair creature and have still many lovers.

MENO: Why do you think so?

SOCRATES: Why, because you always speak in imperatives: like all beauties when they

are in their prime, you are tyrannical; and also, as I suspect, you have found out that I

have weakness for the fair, and therefore to humour you I must answer.

MENO: Please do.

SOCRATES: Would you like me to answer you after the manner of Gorgias, which is

familiar to you?

MENO: I should like nothing better.

SOCRATES: Do not he and you and Empedocles say that there are certain effluences of

existence?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And passages into which and through which the effluences pass?

MENO: Exactly.

SOCRATES: And some of the effluences fit into the passages, and some of them are too

small or too large?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: And there is such a thing as sight?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And now, as Pindar says, 'read my meaning:'—colour is an effluence of form,

commensurate with sight, and palpable to sense.

MENO: That, Socrates, appears to me to be an admirable answer.

SOCRATES: Why, yes, because it happens to be one which you have been in the habit of

hearing: and your wit will have discovered, I suspect, that you may explain in the same

way the nature of sound and smell, and of many other similar phenomena.

MENO: Quite true.

SOCRATES: The answer, Meno, was in the orthodox solemn vein, and therefore was

more acceptable to you than the other answer about figure.

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And yet, O son of Alexidemus, I cannot help thinking that the other was the

better; and I am sure that you would be of the same opinion, if you would only stay and

be initiated, and were not compelled, as you said yesterday, to go away before the

mysteries.

MENO: But I will stay, Socrates, if you will give me many such answers.

SOCRATES: Well then, for my own sake as well as for yours, I will do my very best; but I

am afraid that I shall not be able to give you very many as good: and now, in your turn,

you are to fulfil your promise, and tell me what virtue is in the universal; and do not

make a singular into a plural, as the facetious say of those who break a thing, but deliver

virtue to me whole and sound, and not broken into a number of pieces: I have given you

the pattern.

MENO: Well then, Socrates, virtue, as I take it, is when he, who desires the honourable, is

able to provide it for himself; so the poet says, and I say too—

'Virtue is the desire of things honourable and the power of attaining them.'

SOCRATES: And does he who desires the honourable also desire the good?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then are there some who desire the evil and others who desire the good?

Do not all men, my dear sir, desire good?

MENO: I think not.

SOCRATES: There are some who desire evil?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Do you mean that they think the evils which they desire, to be good; or do

they know that they are evil and yet desire them?

MENO: Both, I think.

SOCRATES: And do you really imagine, Meno, that a man knows evils to be evils and

desires them notwithstanding?

MENO: Certainly I do.

SOCRATES: And desire is of possession?

MENO: Yes, of possession.

SOCRATES: And does he think that the evils will do good to him who possesses them, or

does he know that they will do him harm?

MENO: There are some who think that the evils will do them good, and others who

know that they will do them harm.

SOCRATES: And, in your opinion, do those who think that they will do them good know

that they are evils?

MENO: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Is it not obvious that those who are ignorant of their nature do not desire

them; but they desire what they suppose to be goods although they are really evils; and

if they are mistaken and suppose the evils to be goods they really desire goods?

MENO: Yes, in that case.

SOCRATES: Well, and do those who, as you say, desire evils, and think that evils are

hurtful to the possessor of them, know that they will be hurt by them?

MENO: They must know it.

SOCRATES: And must they not suppose that those who are hurt are miserable in

proportion to the hurt which is inflicted upon them?

MENO: How can it be otherwise?

SOCRATES: But are not the miserable ill-fated?

MENO: Yes, indeed.

SOCRATES: And does any one desire to be miserable and ill-fated?

MENO: I should say not, Socrates.

SOCRATES: But if there is no one who desires to be miserable, there is no one, Meno,

who desires evil; for what is misery but the desire and possession of evil?

MENO: That appears to be the truth, Socrates, and I admit that nobody desires evil.

SOCRATES: And yet, were you not saying just now that virtue is the desire and power of

attaining good?

MENO: Yes, I did say so.

SOCRATES: But if this be affirmed, then the desire of good is common to all, and one

man is no better than another in that respect?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: And if one man is not better than another in desiring good, he must be

better in the power of attaining it?

MENO: Exactly.

SOCRATES: Then, according to your definition, virtue would appear to be the power of

attaining good?

MENO: I entirely approve, Socrates, of the manner in which you now view this matter.

SOCRATES: Then let us see whether what you say is true from another point of view; for

very likely you may be right:—You affirm virtue to be the power of attaining goods?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the goods which you mean are such as health and wealth and the

possession of gold and silver, and having office and honour in the state—those are what

you would call goods?

MENO: Yes, I should include all those.

SOCRATES: Then, according to Meno, who is the hereditary friend of the great king,

virtue is the power of getting silver and gold; and would you add that they must be

gained piously, justly, or do you deem this to be of no consequence? And is any mode

of acquisition, even if unjust and dishonest, equally to be deemed virtue?

MENO: Not virtue, Socrates, but vice.

SOCRATES: Then justice or temperance or holiness, or some other part of virtue, as

would appear, must accompany the acquisition, and without them the mere acquisition

of good will not be virtue.

MENO: Why, how can there be virtue without these?

SOCRATES: And the non-acquisition of gold and silver in a dishonest manner for oneself

or another, or in other words the want of them, may be equally virtue?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: Then the acquisition of such goods is no more virtue than the nonacquisition

and want of them, but whatever is accompanied by justice or honesty is

virtue, and whatever is devoid of justice is vice.

MENO: It cannot be otherwise, in my judgment.

SOCRATES: And were we not saying just now that justice, temperance, and the like, were

each of them a part of virtue?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And so, Meno, this is the way in which you mock me.

MENO: Why do you say that, Socrates?

SOCRATES: Why, because I asked you to deliver virtue into my hands whole and

unbroken, and I gave you a pattern according to which you were to frame your answer;

and you have forgotten already, and tell me that virtue is the power of attaining good

justly, or with justice; and justice you acknowledge to be a part of virtue.

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then it follows from your own admissions, that virtue is doing what you do

with a part of virtue; for justice and the like are said by you to be parts of virtue.

MENO: What of that?

SOCRATES: What of that! Why, did not I ask you to tell me the nature of virtue as a

whole? And you are very far from telling me this; but declare every action to be virtue

which is done with a part of virtue; as though you had told me and I must already know

the whole of virtue, and this too when frittered away into little pieces. And, therefore, my

dear Meno, I fear that I must begin again and repeat the same question: What is virtue?

for otherwise, I can only say, that every action done with a part of virtue is virtue; what

else is the meaning of saying that every action done with justice is virtue? Ought I not to

ask the question over again; for can any one who does not know virtue know a part of

virtue?

MENO: No; I do not say that he can.

SOCRATES: Do you remember how, in the example of figure, we rejected any answer

given in terms which were as yet unexplained or unadmitted?

MENO: Yes, Socrates; and we were quite right in doing so.

SOCRATES: But then, my friend, do not suppose that we can explain to any one the

nature of virtue as a whole through some unexplained portion of virtue, or anything at

all in that fashion; we should only have to ask over again the old question, What is

virtue? Am I not right?

MENO: I believe that you are.

SOCRATES: Then begin again, and answer me, What, according to you and your friend

Gorgias, is the definition of virtue?

MENO: O Socrates, I used to be told, before I knew you, that you were always doubting

yourself and making others doubt; and now you are casting your spells over me, and I

am simply getting bewitched and enchanted, and am at my wits' end. And if I may

venture to make a jest upon you, you seem to me both in your appearance and in your

power over others to be very like the flat torpedo fish, who torpifies those who come

near him and touch him, as you have now torpified me, I think. For my soul and my

tongue are really torpid, and I do not know how to answer you; and though I have been

delivered of an infinite variety of speeches about virtue before now, and to many

persons—and very good ones they were, as I thought—at this moment I cannot even

say what virtue is. And I think that you are very wise in not voyaging and going away

from home, for if you did in other places as you do in Athens, you would be cast into

prison as a magician.

SOCRATES: You are a rogue, Meno, and had all but caught me.

MENO: What do you mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I can tell why you made a simile about me.

MENO: Why?

SOCRATES: In order that I might make another simile about you. For I know that all

pretty young gentlemen like to have pretty similes made about them—as well they

may—but I shall not return the compliment. As to my being a torpedo, if the torpedo is

torpid as well as the cause of torpidity in others, then indeed I am a torpedo, but not

otherwise; for I perplex others, not because I am clear, but because I am utterly

perplexed myself. And now I know not what virtue is, and you seem to be in the same

case, although you did once perhaps know before you touched me. However, I have no

objection to join with you in the enquiry.

MENO: And how will you enquire, Socrates, into that which you do not know? What will

you put forth as the subject of enquiry? And if you find what you want, how will you

ever know that this is the thing which you did not know?

SOCRATES: I know, Meno, what you mean; but just see what a tiresome dispute you are

introducing. You argue that a man cannot enquire either about that which he knows, or

about that which he does not know; for if he knows, he has no need to enquire; and if

not, he cannot; for he does not know the very subject about which he is to enquire

(Compare Aristot. Post. Anal.).

MENO: Well, Socrates, and is not the argument sound?

SOCRATES: I think not.

MENO: Why not?

SOCRATES: I will tell you why: I have heard from certain wise men and women who

spoke of things divine that—

MENO: What did they say?

SOCRATES: They spoke of a glorious truth, as I conceive.

MENO: What was it? and who were they?

SOCRATES: Some of them were priests and priestesses, who had studied how they

might be able to give a reason of their profession: there have been poets also, who

spoke of these things by inspiration, like Pindar, and many others who were inspired.

And they say—mark, now, and see whether their words are true—they say that the soul

of man is immortal, and at one time has an end, which is termed dying, and at another

time is born again, but is never destroyed. And the moral is, that a man ought to live

always in perfect holiness. 'For in the ninth year Persephone sends the souls of those

from whom she has received the penalty of ancient crime back again from beneath into

the light of the sun above, and these are they who become noble kings and mighty men

and great in wisdom and are called saintly heroes in after ages.' The soul, then, as being

immortal, and having been born again many times, and having seen all things that exist,

whether in this world or in the world below, has knowledge of them all; and it is no

wonder that she should be able to call to remembrance all that she ever knew about

virtue, and about everything; for as all nature is akin, and the soul has learned all things;

there is no difficulty in her eliciting or as men say learning, out of a single recollection all

the rest, if a man is strenuous and does not faint; for all enquiry and all learning is but

recollection. And therefore we ought not to listen to this sophistical argument about the

impossibility of enquiry: for it will make us idle; and is sweet only to the sluggard; but

the other saying will make us active and inquisitive. In that confiding, I will gladly

enquire with you into the nature of virtue.

MENO: Yes, Socrates; but what do you mean by saying that we do not learn, and that

what we call learning is only a process of recollection? Can you teach me how this is?

SOCRATES: I told you, Meno, just now that you were a rogue, and now you ask whether I

can teach you, when I am saying that there is no teaching, but only recollection; and

thus you imagine that you will involve me in a contradiction.

MENO: Indeed, Socrates, I protest that I had no such intention. I only asked the question

from habit; but if you can prove to me that what you say is true, I wish that you would.

SOCRATES: It will be no easy matter, but I will try to please you to the utmost of my

power. Suppose that you call one of your numerous attendants, that I may demonstrate

on him.

MENO: Certainly. Come hither, boy.

SOCRATES: He is Greek, and speaks Greek, does he not?

MENO: Yes, indeed; he was born in the house.

SOCRATES: Attend now to the questions which I ask him, and observe whether he learns

of me or only remembers.

MENO: I will.

SOCRATES: Tell me, boy, do you know that a figure like this is a square?

BOY: I do.

SOCRATES: And you know that a square figure has these four lines equal?

BOY: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And these lines which I have drawn through the middle of the square are

also equal?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: A square may be of any size?

BOY: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And if one side of the figure be of two feet, and the other side be of two

feet, how much will the whole be? Let me explain: if in one direction the space was of

two feet, and in the other direction of one foot, the whole would be of two feet taken

once?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: But since this side is also of two feet, there are twice two feet?

BOY: There are.

SOCRATES: Then the square is of twice two feet?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And how many are twice two feet? count and tell me.

BOY: Four, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And might there not be another square twice as large as this, and having like

this the lines equal?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And of how many feet will that be?

BOY: Of eight feet.

SOCRATES: And now try and tell me the length of the line which forms the side of that

double square: this is two feet—what will that be?

BOY: Clearly, Socrates, it will be double.

SOCRATES: Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching the boy anything, but only

asking him questions; and now he fancies that he knows how long a line is necessary in

order to produce a figure of eight square feet; does he not?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And does he really know?

MENO: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: He only guesses that because the square is double, the line is double.

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: Observe him while he recalls the steps in regular order. (To the Boy:) Tell me,

boy, do you assert that a double space comes from a double line? Remember that I am

not speaking of an oblong, but of a figure equal every way, and twice the size of this—

that is to say of eight feet; and I want to know whether you still say that a double square

comes from double line?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: But does not this line become doubled if we add another such line here?

BOY: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And four such lines will make a space containing eight feet?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: Let us describe such a figure: Would you not say that this is the figure of

eight feet?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And are there not these four divisions in the figure, each of which is equal to

the figure of four feet?

BOY: True.

SOCRATES: And is not that four times four?

BOY: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And four times is not double?

BOY: No, indeed.

SOCRATES: But how much?

BOY: Four times as much.

SOCRATES: Therefore the double line, boy, has given a space, not twice, but four times

as much.

BOY: True.

SOCRATES: Four times four are sixteen—are they not?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: What line would give you a space of eight feet, as this gives one of sixteen

feet;—do you see?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the space of four feet is made from this half line?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: Good; and is not a space of eight feet twice the size of this, and half the size

of the other?

BOY: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Such a space, then, will be made out of a line greater than this one, and less

than that one?

BOY: Yes; I think so.

SOCRATES: Very good; I like to hear you say what you think. And now tell me, is not this

a line of two feet and that of four?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then the line which forms the side of eight feet ought to be more than this

line of two feet, and less than the other of four feet?

BOY: It ought.

SOCRATES: Try and see if you can tell me how much it will be.

BOY: Three feet.

SOCRATES: Then if we add a half to this line of two, that will be the line of three. Here

are two and there is one; and on the other side, here are two also and there is one: and

that makes the figure of which you speak?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: But if there are three feet this way and three feet that way, the whole space

will be three times three feet?

BOY: That is evident.

SOCRATES: And how much are three times three feet?

BOY: Nine.

SOCRATES: And how much is the double of four?

BOY: Eight.

SOCRATES: Then the figure of eight is not made out of a line of three?

BOY: No.

SOCRATES: But from what line?—tell me exactly; and if you would rather not reckon, try

and show me the line.

BOY: Indeed, Socrates, I do not know.

SOCRATES: Do you see, Meno, what advances he has made in his power of recollection?

He did not know at first, and he does not know now, what is the side of a figure of eight

feet: but then he thought that he knew, and answered confidently as if he knew, and had

no difficulty; now he has a difficulty, and neither knows nor fancies that he knows.

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: Is he not better off in knowing his ignorance?

MENO: I think that he is.

SOCRATES: If we have made him doubt, and given him the 'torpedo's shock,' have we

done him any harm?

MENO: I think not.

SOCRATES: We have certainly, as would seem, assisted him in some degree to the

discovery of the truth; and now he will wish to remedy his ignorance, but then he would

have been ready to tell all the world again and again that the double space should have

a double side.

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: But do you suppose that he would ever have enquired into or learned what

he fancied that he knew, though he was really ignorant of it, until he had fallen into

perplexity under the idea that he did not know, and had desired to know?

MENO: I think not, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then he was the better for the torpedo's touch?

MENO: I think so.

SOCRATES: Mark now the farther development. I shall only ask him, and not teach him,

and he shall share the enquiry with me: and do you watch and see if you find me telling

or explaining anything to him, instead of eliciting his opinion. Tell me, boy, is not this a

square of four feet which I have drawn?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And now I add another square equal to the former one?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And a third, which is equal to either of them?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: Suppose that we fill up the vacant corner?

BOY: Very good.

SOCRATES: Here, then, there are four equal spaces?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And how many times larger is this space than this other?

BOY: Four times.

SOCRATES: But it ought to have been twice only, as you will remember.

BOY: True.

SOCRATES: And does not this line, reaching from corner to corner, bisect each of these

spaces?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And are there not here four equal lines which contain this space?

BOY: There are.

SOCRATES: Look and see how much this space is.

BOY: I do not understand.

SOCRATES: Has not each interior line cut off half of the four spaces?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And how many spaces are there in this section?

BOY: Four.

SOCRATES: And how many in this?

BOY: Two.

SOCRATES: And four is how many times two?

BOY: Twice.

SOCRATES: And this space is of how many feet?

BOY: Of eight feet.

SOCRATES: And from what line do you get this figure?

BOY: From this.

SOCRATES: That is, from the line which extends from corner to corner of the figure of

four feet?

BOY: Yes.

SOCRATES: And that is the line which the learned call the diagonal. And if this is the

proper name, then you, Meno's slave, are prepared to affirm that the double space is

the square of the diagonal?

BOY: Certainly, Socrates.

SOCRATES: What do you say of him, Meno? Were not all these answers given out of his

own head?

MENO: Yes, they were all his own.

SOCRATES: And yet, as we were just now saying, he did not know?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: But still he had in him those notions of his—had he not?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then he who does not know may still have true notions of that which he

does not know?

MENO: He has.

SOCRATES: And at present these notions have just been stirred up in him, as in a dream;

but if he were frequently asked the same questions, in different forms, he would know

as well as any one at last?

MENO: I dare say.

SOCRATES: Without any one teaching him he will recover his knowledge for himself, if

he is only asked questions?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And this spontaneous recovery of knowledge in him is recollection?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: And this knowledge which he now has must he not either have acquired or

always possessed?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: But if he always possessed this knowledge he would always have known; or

if he has acquired the knowledge he could not have acquired it in this life, unless he has

been taught geometry; for he may be made to do the same with all geometry and every

other branch of knowledge. Now, has any one ever taught him all this? You must know

about him, if, as you say, he was born and bred in your house.

MENO: And I am certain that no one ever did teach him.

SOCRATES: And yet he has the knowledge?

MENO: The fact, Socrates, is undeniable.

SOCRATES: But if he did not acquire the knowledge in this life, then he must have had

and learned it at some other time?

MENO: Clearly he must.

SOCRATES: Which must have been the time when he was not a man?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if there have been always true thoughts in him, both at the time when

he was and was not a man, which only need to be awakened into knowledge by putting

questions to him, his soul must have always possessed this knowledge, for he always

either was or was not a man?

MENO: Obviously.

SOCRATES: And if the truth of all things always existed in the soul, then the soul is

immortal. Wherefore be of good cheer, and try to recollect what you do not know, or

rather what you do not remember.

MENO: I feel, somehow, that I like what you are saying.

SOCRATES: And I, Meno, like what I am saying. Some things I have said of which I am

not altogether confident. But that we shall be better and braver and less helpless if we

think that we ought to enquire, than we should have been if we indulged in the idle

fancy that there was no knowing and no use in seeking to know what we do not

know;—that is a theme upon which I am ready to fight, in word and deed, to the utmost

of my power.

MENO: There again, Socrates, your words seem to me excellent.

SOCRATES: Then, as we are agreed that a man should enquire about that which he does

not know, shall you and I make an effort to enquire together into the nature of virtue?

MENO: By all means, Socrates. And yet I would much rather return to my original

question, Whether in seeking to acquire virtue we should regard it as a thing to be

taught, or as a gift of nature, or as coming to men in some other way?

SOCRATES: Had I the command of you as well as of myself, Meno, I would not have

enquired whether virtue is given by instruction or not, until we had first ascertained

'what it is.' But as you think only of controlling me who am your slave, and never of

controlling yourself,—such being your notion of freedom, I must yield to you, for you

are irresistible. And therefore I have now to enquire into the qualities of a thing of which

I do not as yet know the nature. At any rate, will you condescend a little, and allow the

question 'Whether virtue is given by instruction, or in any other way,' to be argued upon

hypothesis? As the geometrician, when he is asked whether a certain triangle is capable

being inscribed in a certain circle (Or, whether a certain area is capable of being

inscribed as a triangle in a certain circle.), will reply: 'I cannot tell you as yet; but I will

offer a hypothesis which may assist us in forming a conclusion: If the figure be such that

when you have produced a given side of it (Or, when you apply it to the given line, i.e.

the diameter of the circle (autou).), the given area of the triangle falls short by an area

corresponding to the part produced (Or, similar to the area so applied.), then one

consequence follows, and if this is impossible then some other; and therefore I wish to

assume a hypothesis before I tell you whether this triangle is capable of being inscribed

in the circle':—that is a geometrical hypothesis. And we too, as we know not the nature

and qualities of virtue, must ask, whether virtue is or is not taught, under a hypothesis:

as thus, if virtue is of such a class of mental goods, will it be taught or not? Let the first

hypothesis be that virtue is or is not knowledge,—in that case will it be taught or not?

or, as we were just now saying, 'remembered'? For there is no use in disputing about the

name. But is virtue taught or not? or rather, does not every one see that knowledge

alone is taught?

MENO: I agree.

SOCRATES: Then if virtue is knowledge, virtue will be taught?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then now we have made a quick end of this question: if virtue is of such a

nature, it will be taught; and if not, not?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: The next question is, whether virtue is knowledge or of another species?

MENO: Yes, that appears to be the question which comes next in order.

SOCRATES: Do we not say that virtue is a good?—This is a hypothesis which is not set

aside.

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Now, if there be any sort of good which is distinct from knowledge, virtue

may be that good; but if knowledge embraces all good, then we shall be right in

thinking that virtue is knowledge?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: And virtue makes us good?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if we are good, then we are profitable; for all good things are

profitable?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then virtue is profitable?

MENO: That is the only inference.

SOCRATES: Then now let us see what are the things which severally profit us. Health and

strength, and beauty and wealth—these, and the like of these, we call profitable?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: And yet these things may also sometimes do us harm: would you not think

so?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And what is the guiding principle which makes them profitable or the

reverse? Are they not profitable when they are rightly used, and hurtful when they are

not rightly used?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Next, let us consider the goods of the soul: they are temperance, justice,

courage, quickness of apprehension, memory, magnanimity, and the like?

MENO: Surely.

SOCRATES: And such of these as are not knowledge, but of another sort, are sometimes

profitable and sometimes hurtful; as, for example, courage wanting prudence, which is

only a sort of confidence? When a man has no sense he is harmed by courage, but when

he has sense he is profited?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: And the same may be said of temperance and quickness of apprehension;

whatever things are learned or done with sense are profitable, but when done without

sense they are hurtful?

MENO: Very true.

SOCRATES: And in general, all that the soul attempts or endures, when under the

guidance of wisdom, ends in happiness; but when she is under the guidance of folly, in

the opposite?

MENO: That appears to be true.

SOCRATES: If then virtue is a quality of the soul, and is admitted to be profitable, it must

be wisdom or prudence, since none of the things of the soul are either profitable or

hurtful in themselves, but they are all made profitable or hurtful by the addition of

wisdom or of folly; and therefore if virtue is profitable, virtue must be a sort of wisdom

or prudence?

MENO: I quite agree.

SOCRATES: And the other goods, such as wealth and the like, of which we were just now

saying that they are sometimes good and sometimes evil, do not they also become

profitable or hurtful, accordingly as the soul guides and uses them rightly or wrongly;

just as the things of the soul herself are benefited when under the guidance of wisdom

and harmed by folly?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: And the wise soul guides them rightly, and the foolish soul wrongly.

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And is not this universally true of human nature? All other things hang upon

the soul, and the things of the soul herself hang upon wisdom, if they are to be good;

and so wisdom is inferred to be that which profits—and virtue, as we say, is profitable?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And thus we arrive at the conclusion that virtue is either wholly or partly

wisdom?

MENO: I think that what you are saying, Socrates, is very true.

SOCRATES: But if this is true, then the good are not by nature good?

MENO: I think not.

SOCRATES: If they had been, there would assuredly have been discerners of characters

among us who would have known our future great men; and on their showing we

should have adopted them, and when we had got them, we should have kept them in

the citadel out of the way of harm, and set a stamp upon them far rather than upon a

piece of gold, in order that no one might tamper with them; and when they grew up

they would have been useful to the state?

MENO: Yes, Socrates, that would have been the right way.

SOCRATES: But if the good are not by nature good, are they made good by instruction?

MENO: There appears to be no other alternative, Socrates. On the supposition that

virtue is knowledge, there can be no doubt that virtue is taught.

SOCRATES: Yes, indeed; but what if the supposition is erroneous?

MENO: I certainly thought just now that we were right.

SOCRATES: Yes, Meno; but a principle which has any soundness should stand firm not

only just now, but always.

MENO: Well; and why are you so slow of heart to believe that knowledge is virtue?

SOCRATES: I will try and tell you why, Meno. I do not retract the assertion that if virtue is

knowledge it may be taught; but I fear that I have some reason in doubting whether

virtue is knowledge: for consider now and say whether virtue, and not only virtue but

anything that is taught, must not have teachers and disciples?

MENO: Surely.

SOCRATES: And conversely, may not the art of which neither teachers nor disciples exist

be assumed to be incapable of being taught?

MENO: True; but do you think that there are no teachers of virtue?

SOCRATES: I have certainly often enquired whether there were any, and taken great

pains to find them, and have never succeeded; and many have assisted me in the search,

and they were the persons whom I thought the most likely to know. Here at the

moment when he is wanted we fortunately have sitting by us Anytus, the very person of

whom we should make enquiry; to him then let us repair. In the first place, he is the son

of a wealthy and wise father, Anthemion, who acquired his wealth, not by accident or

gift, like Ismenias the Theban (who has recently made himself as rich as Polycrates), but

by his own skill and industry, and who is a well- conditioned, modest man, not insolent,

or overbearing, or annoying; moreover, this son of his has received a good education, as

the Athenian people certainly appear to think, for they choose him to fill the highest

offices. And these are the sort of men from whom you are likely to learn whether there

are any teachers of virtue, and who they are. Please, Anytus, to help me and your friend

Meno in answering our question, Who are the teachers? Consider the matter thus: If we

wanted Meno to be a good physician, to whom should we send him? Should we not

send him to the physicians?

ANYTUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Or if we wanted him to be a good cobbler, should we not send him to the

cobblers?

ANYTUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And so forth?

ANYTUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Let me trouble you with one more question. When we say that we should be

right in sending him to the physicians if we wanted him to be a physician, do we mean

that we should be right in sending him to those who profess the art, rather than to

those who do not, and to those who demand payment for teaching the art, and profess

to teach it to any one who will come and learn? And if these were our reasons, should

we not be right in sending him?

ANYTUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And might not the same be said of flute-playing, and of the other arts?

Would a man who wanted to make another a flute-player refuse to send him to those

who profess to teach the art for money, and be plaguing other persons to give him

instruction, who are not professed teachers and who never had a single disciple in that

branch of knowledge which he wishes him to acquire—would not such conduct be the

height of folly?

ANYTUS: Yes, by Zeus, and of ignorance too.

SOCRATES: Very good. And now you are in a position to advise with me about my friend

Meno. He has been telling me, Anytus, that he desires to attain that kind of wisdom and

virtue by which men order the state or the house, and honour their parents, and know

when to receive and when to send away citizens and strangers, as a good man should.

Now, to whom should he go in order that he may learn this virtue? Does not the

previous argument imply clearly that we should send him to those who profess and

avouch that they are the common teachers of all Hellas, and are ready to impart

instruction to any one who likes, at a fixed price?

ANYTUS: Whom do you mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: You surely know, do you not, Anytus, that these are the people whom

mankind call Sophists?

ANYTUS: By Heracles, Socrates, forbear! I only hope that no friend or kinsman or

acquaintance of mine, whether citizen or stranger, will ever be so mad as to allow

himself to be corrupted by them; for they are a manifest pest and corrupting influence

to those who have to do with them.

SOCRATES: What, Anytus? Of all the people who profess that they know how to do men

good, do you mean to say that these are the only ones who not only do them no good,

but positively corrupt those who are entrusted to them, and in return for this disservice

have the face to demand money? Indeed, I cannot believe you; for I know of a single

man, Protagoras, who made more out of his craft than the illustrious Pheidias, who

created such noble works, or any ten other statuaries. How could that be? A mender of

old shoes, or patcher up of clothes, who made the shoes or clothes worse than he

received them, could not have remained thirty days undetected, and would very soon

have starved; whereas during more than forty years, Protagoras was corrupting all

Hellas, and sending his disciples from him worse than he received them, and he was

never found out. For, if I am not mistaken, he was about seventy years old at his death,

forty of which were spent in the practice of his profession; and during all that time he

had a good reputation, which to this day he retains: and not only Protagoras, but many

others are well spoken of; some who lived before him, and others who are still living.

Now, when you say that they deceived and corrupted the youth, are they to be

supposed to have corrupted them consciously or unconsciously? Can those who were

deemed by many to be the wisest men of Hellas have been out of their minds?

ANYTUS: Out of their minds! No, Socrates; the young men who gave their money to

them were out of their minds, and their relations and guardians who entrusted their

youth to the care of these men were still more out of their minds, and most of all, the

cities who allowed them to come in, and did not drive them out, citizen and stranger

alike.

SOCRATES: Has any of the Sophists wronged you, Anytus? What makes you so angry

with them?

ANYTUS: No, indeed, neither I nor any of my belongings has ever had, nor would I suffer

them to have, anything to do with them.

SOCRATES: Then you are entirely unacquainted with them?

ANYTUS: And I have no wish to be acquainted.

SOCRATES: Then, my dear friend, how can you know whether a thing is good or bad of

which you are wholly ignorant?

ANYTUS: Quite well; I am sure that I know what manner of men these are, whether I am

acquainted with them or not.

SOCRATES: You must be a diviner, Anytus, for I really cannot make out, judging from

your own words, how, if you are not acquainted with them, you know about them. But I

am not enquiring of you who are the teachers who will corrupt Meno (let them be, if

you please, the Sophists); I only ask you to tell him who there is in this great city who

will teach him how to become eminent in the virtues which I was just now describing. He

is the friend of your family, and you will oblige him.

ANYTUS: Why do you not tell him yourself?

SOCRATES: I have told him whom I supposed to be the teachers of these things; but I

learn from you that I am utterly at fault, and I dare say that you are right. And now I wish

that you, on your part, would tell me to whom among the Athenians he should go.

Whom would you name?

ANYTUS: Why single out individuals? Any Athenian gentleman, taken at random, if he

will mind him, will do far more good to him than the Sophists.

SOCRATES: And did those gentlemen grow of themselves; and without having been

taught by any one, were they nevertheless able to teach others that which they had

never learned themselves?

ANYTUS: I imagine that they learned of the previous generation of gentlemen. Have

there not been many good men in this city?

SOCRATES: Yes, certainly, Anytus; and many good statesmen also there always have

been and there are still, in the city of Athens. But the question is whether they were also

good teachers of their own virtue;—not whether there are, or have been, good men in

this part of the world, but whether virtue can be taught, is the question which we have

been discussing. Now, do we mean to say that the good men of our own and of other

times knew how to impart to others that virtue which they had themselves; or is virtue a

thing incapable of being communicated or imparted by one man to another? That is the

question which I and Meno have been arguing. Look at the matter in your own way:

Would you not admit that Themistocles was a good man?

ANYTUS: Certainly; no man better.

SOCRATES: And must not he then have been a good teacher, if any man ever was a

good teacher, of his own virtue?

ANYTUS: Yes certainly,—if he wanted to be so.

SOCRATES: But would he not have wanted? He would, at any rate, have desired to make

his own son a good man and a gentleman; he could not have been jealous of him, or

have intentionally abstained from imparting to him his own virtue. Did you never hear

that he made his son Cleophantus a famous horseman; and had him taught to stand

upright on horseback and hurl a javelin, and to do many other marvellous things; and in

anything which could be learned from a master he was well trained? Have you not heard

from our elders of him?

ANYTUS: I have.

SOCRATES: Then no one could say that his son showed any want of capacity?

ANYTUS: Very likely not.

SOCRATES: But did any one, old or young, ever say in your hearing that Cleophantus,

son of Themistocles, was a wise or good man, as his father was?

ANYTUS: I have certainly never heard any one say so.

SOCRATES: And if virtue could have been taught, would his father Themistocles have

sought to train him in these minor accomplishments, and allowed him who, as you must

remember, was his own son, to be no better than his neighbours in those qualities in

which he himself excelled?

ANYTUS: Indeed, indeed, I think not.

SOCRATES: Here was a teacher of virtue whom you admit to be among the best men of

the past. Let us take another,—Aristides, the son of Lysimachus: would you not

acknowledge that he was a good man?

ANYTUS: To be sure I should.

SOCRATES: And did not he train his son Lysimachus better than any other Athenian in all

that could be done for him by the help of masters? But what has been the result? Is he a

bit better than any other mortal? He is an acquaintance of yours, and you see what he is

like. There is Pericles, again, magnificent in his wisdom; and he, as you are aware, had

two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus.

ANYTUS: I know.

SOCRATES: And you know, also, that he taught them to be unrivalled horsemen, and

had them trained in music and gymnastics and all sorts of arts—in these respects they

were on a level with the best—and had he no wish to make good men of them? Nay, he

must have wished it. But virtue, as I suspect, could not be taught. And that you may not

suppose the incompetent teachers to be only the meaner sort of Athenians and few in

number, remember again that Thucydides had two sons, Melesias and Stephanus,

whom, besides giving them a good education in other things, he trained in wrestling,

and they were the best wrestlers in Athens: one of them he committed to the care of

Xanthias, and the other of Eudorus, who had the reputation of being the most

celebrated wrestlers of that day. Do you remember them?

ANYTUS: I have heard of them.

SOCRATES: Now, can there be a doubt that Thucydides, whose children were taught

things for which he had to spend money, would have taught them to be good men,

which would have cost him nothing, if virtue could have been taught? Will you reply that

he was a mean man, and had not many friends among the Athenians and allies? Nay,

but he was of a great family, and a man of influence at Athens and in all Hellas, and, if

virtue could have been taught, he would have found out some Athenian or foreigner

who would have made good men of his sons, if he could not himself spare the time

from cares of state. Once more, I suspect, friend Anytus, that virtue is not a thing which

can be taught?

ANYTUS: Socrates, I think that you are too ready to speak evil of men: and, if you will

take my advice, I would recommend you to be careful. Perhaps there is no city in which

it is not easier to do men harm than to do them good, and this is certainly the case at

Athens, as I believe that you know.

SOCRATES: O Meno, think that Anytus is in a rage. And he may well be in a rage, for he

thinks, in the first place, that I am defaming these gentlemen; and in the second place,

he is of opinion that he is one of them himself. But some day he will know what is the

meaning of defamation, and if he ever does, he will forgive me. Meanwhile I will return

to you, Meno; for I suppose that there are gentlemen in your region too?

MENO: Certainly there are.

SOCRATES: And are they willing to teach the young? and do they profess to be

teachers? and do they agree that virtue is taught?

MENO: No indeed, Socrates, they are anything but agreed; you may hear them saying at

one time that virtue can be taught, and then again the reverse.

SOCRATES: Can we call those teachers who do not acknowledge the possibility of their

own vocation?

MENO: I think not, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And what do you think of these Sophists, who are the only professors? Do

they seem to you to be teachers of virtue?

MENO: I often wonder, Socrates, that Gorgias is never heard promising to teach virtue:

and when he hears others promising he only laughs at them; but he thinks that men

should be taught to speak.

SOCRATES: Then do you not think that the Sophists are teachers?

MENO: I cannot tell you, Socrates; like the rest of the world, I am in doubt, and

sometimes I think that they are teachers and sometimes not.

SOCRATES: And are you aware that not you only and other politicians have doubts

whether virtue can be taught or not, but that Theognis the poet says the very same

thing?

MENO: Where does he say so?

SOCRATES: In these elegiac verses (Theog.):

'Eat and drink and sit with the mighty, and make yourself agreeable to them; for from

the good you will learn what is good, but if you mix with the bad you will lose the

intelligence which you already have.'

Do you observe that here he seems to imply that virtue can be taught?

MENO: Clearly.

SOCRATES: But in some other verses he shifts about and says (Theog.):

'If understanding could be created and put into a man, then they' (who were able to

perform this feat) 'would have obtained great rewards.'

And again:—

'Never would a bad son have sprung from a good sire, for he would have heard the

voice of instruction; but not by teaching will you ever make a bad man into a good one.'

And this, as you may remark, is a contradiction of the other.

MENO: Clearly.

SOCRATES: And is there anything else of which the professors are affirmed not only not

to be teachers of others, but to be ignorant themselves, and bad at the knowledge of

that which they are professing to teach? or is there anything about which even the

acknowledged 'gentlemen' are sometimes saying that 'this thing can be taught,' and

sometimes the opposite? Can you say that they are teachers in any true sense whose

ideas are in such confusion?

MENO: I should say, certainly not.

SOCRATES: But if neither the Sophists nor the gentlemen are teachers, clearly there can

be no other teachers?

MENO: No.

SOCRATES: And if there are no teachers, neither are there disciples?

MENO: Agreed.

SOCRATES: And we have admitted that a thing cannot be taught of which there are

neither teachers nor disciples?

MENO: We have.

SOCRATES: And there are no teachers of virtue to be found anywhere?

MENO: There are not.

SOCRATES: And if there are no teachers, neither are there scholars?

MENO: That, I think, is true.

SOCRATES: Then virtue cannot be taught?

MENO: Not if we are right in our view. But I cannot believe, Socrates, that there are no

good men: And if there are, how did they come into existence?

SOCRATES: I am afraid, Meno, that you and I are not good for much, and that Gorgias

has been as poor an educator of you as Prodicus has been of me. Certainly we shall

have to look to ourselves, and try to find some one who will help in some way or other

to improve us. This I say, because I observe that in the previous discussion none of us

remarked that right and good action is possible to man under other guidance than that

of knowledge (episteme);—and indeed if this be denied, there is no seeing how there

can be any good men at all.

MENO: How do you mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I mean that good men are necessarily useful or profitable. Were we not right

in admitting this? It must be so.

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And in supposing that they will be useful only if they are true guides to us of

action—there we were also right?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: But when we said that a man cannot be a good guide unless he have

knowledge (phrhonesis), this we were wrong.

MENO: What do you mean by the word 'right'?

SOCRATES: I will explain. If a man knew the way to Larisa, or anywhere else, and went to

the place and led others thither, would he not be a right and good guide?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And a person who had a right opinion about the way, but had never been

and did not know, might be a good guide also, might he not?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And while he has true opinion about that which the other knows, he will be

just as good a guide if he thinks the truth, as he who knows the truth?

MENO: Exactly.

SOCRATES: Then true opinion is as good a guide to correct action as knowledge; and

that was the point which we omitted in our speculation about the nature of virtue, when

we said that knowledge only is the guide of right action; whereas there is also right

opinion.

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: Then right opinion is not less useful than knowledge?

MENO: The difference, Socrates, is only that he who has knowledge will always be right;

but he who has right opinion will sometimes be right, and sometimes not.

SOCRATES: What do you mean? Can he be wrong who has right opinion, so long as he

has right opinion?

MENO: I admit the cogency of your argument, and therefore, Socrates, I wonder that

knowledge should be preferred to right opinion—or why they should ever differ.

SOCRATES: And shall I explain this wonder to you?

MENO: Do tell me.

SOCRATES: You would not wonder if you had ever observed the images of Daedalus

(Compare Euthyphro); but perhaps you have not got them in your country?

MENO: What have they to do with the question?

SOCRATES: Because they require to be fastened in order to keep them, and if they are

not fastened they will play truant and run away.

MENO: Well, what of that?

SOCRATES: I mean to say that they are not very valuable possessions if they are at

liberty, for they will walk off like runaway slaves; but when fastened, they are of great

value, for they are really beautiful works of art. Now this is an illustration of the nature of

true opinions: while they abide with us they are beautiful and fruitful, but they run away

out of the human soul, and do not remain long, and therefore they are not of much

value until they are fastened by the tie of the cause; and this fastening of them, friend

Meno, is recollection, as you and I have agreed to call it. But when they are bound, in

the first place, they have the nature of knowledge; and, in the second place, they are

abiding. And this is why knowledge is more honourable and excellent than true opinion,

because fastened by a chain.

MENO: What you are saying, Socrates, seems to be very like the truth.

SOCRATES: I too speak rather in ignorance; I only conjecture. And yet that knowledge

differs from true opinion is no matter of conjecture with me. There are not many things

which I profess to know, but this is most certainly one of them.

MENO: Yes, Socrates; and you are quite right in saying so.

SOCRATES: And am I not also right in saying that true opinion leading the way perfects

action quite as well as knowledge?

MENO: There again, Socrates, I think you are right.

SOCRATES: Then right opinion is not a whit inferior to knowledge, or less useful in

action; nor is the man who has right opinion inferior to him who has knowledge?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: And surely the good man has been acknowledged by us to be useful?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Seeing then that men become good and useful to states, not only because

they have knowledge, but because they have right opinion, and that neither knowledge

nor right opinion is given to man by nature or acquired by him—(do you imagine either

of them to be given by nature?

MENO: Not I.)

SOCRATES: Then if they are not given by nature, neither are the good by nature good?

MENO: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: And nature being excluded, then came the question whether virtue is

acquired by teaching?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: If virtue was wisdom (or knowledge), then, as we thought, it was taught?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if it was taught it was wisdom?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And if there were teachers, it might be taught; and if there were no teachers,

not?

MENO: True.

SOCRATES: But surely we acknowledged that there were no teachers of virtue?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then we acknowledged that it was not taught, and was not wisdom?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And yet we admitted that it was a good?

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the right guide is useful and good?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And the only right guides are knowledge and true opinion—these are the

guides of man; for things which happen by chance are not under the guidance of man:

but the guides of man are true opinion and knowledge.

MENO: I think so too.

SOCRATES: But if virtue is not taught, neither is virtue knowledge.

MENO: Clearly not.

SOCRATES: Then of two good and useful things, one, which is knowledge, has been set

aside, and cannot be supposed to be our guide in political life.

MENO: I think not.

SOCRATES: And therefore not by any wisdom, and not because they were wise, did

Themistocles and those others of whom Anytus spoke govern states. This was the

reason why they were unable to make others like themselves—because their virtue was

not grounded on knowledge.

MENO: That is probably true, Socrates.

SOCRATES: But if not by knowledge, the only alternative which remains is that

statesmen must have guided states by right opinion, which is in politics what divination

is in religion; for diviners and also prophets say many things truly, but they know not

what they say.

MENO: So I believe.

SOCRATES: And may we not, Meno, truly call those men 'divine' who, having no

understanding, yet succeed in many a grand deed and word?

MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Then we shall also be right in calling divine those whom we were just now

speaking of as diviners and prophets, including the whole tribe of poets. Yes, and

statesmen above all may be said to be divine and illumined, being inspired and

possessed of God, in which condition they say many grand things, not knowing what

they say.

MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the women too, Meno, call good men divine—do they not? and the

Spartans, when they praise a good man, say 'that he is a divine man.'

MENO: And I think, Socrates, that they are right; although very likely our friend Anytus

may take offence at the word.

SOCRATES: I do not care; as for Anytus, there will be another opportunity of talking with

him. To sum up our enquiry—the result seems to be, if we are at all right in our view,

that virtue is neither natural nor acquired, but an instinct given by God to the virtuous.

Nor is the instinct accompanied by reason, unless there may be supposed to be among

statesmen some one who is capable of educating statesmen. And if there be such an

one, he may be said to be among the living what Homer says that Tiresias was among

the dead, 'he alone has understanding; but the rest are flitting shades'; and he and his

virtue in like manner will be a reality among shadows.

MENO: That is excellent, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then, Meno, the conclusion is that virtue comes to the virtuous by the gift of

God. But we shall never know the certain truth until, before asking how virtue is given,

we enquire into the actual nature of virtue. I fear that I must go away, but do you, now

that you are persuaded yourself, persuade our friend Anytus. And do not let him be so

exasperated; if you can conciliate him, you will have done good service to the Athenian

people.

The end

EUTHYDEMUS

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator of the Dialogue. Crito,

Cleinias, Euthydemus, Dionysodorus, Ctesippus.

SCENE: The Lyceum.

CRITO: Who was the person, Socrates, with whom you were talking yesterday at the

Lyceum? There was such a crowd around you that I could not get within hearing, but I

caught a sight of him over their heads, and I made out, as I thought, that he was a

stranger with whom you were talking: who was he?

SOCRATES: There were two, Crito; which of them do you mean?

CRITO: The one whom I mean was seated second from you on the right-hand side. In

the middle was Cleinias the young son of Axiochus, who has wonderfully grown; he is

only about the age of my own Critobulus, but he is much forwarder and very goodlooking:

the other is thin and looks younger than he is.

SOCRATES: He whom you mean, Crito, is Euthydemus; and on my left hand there was his

brother Dionysodorus, who also took part in the conversation.

CRITO: Neither of them are known to me, Socrates; they are a new importation of

Sophists, as I should imagine. Of what country are they, and what is their line of

wisdom?

SOCRATES: As to their origin, I believe that they are natives of this part of the world, and

have migrated from Chios to Thurii; they were driven out of Thurii, and have been living

for many years past in these regions. As to their wisdom, about which you ask, Crito,

they are wonderful— consummate! I never knew what the true pancratiast was before;

they are simply made up of fighting, not like the two Acarnanian brothers who fight with

their bodies only, but this pair of heroes, besides being perfect in the use of their

bodies, are invincible in every sort of warfare; for they are capital at fighting in armour,

and will teach the art to any one who pays them; and also they are most skilful in legal

warfare; they will plead themselves and teach others to speak and to compose speeches

which will have an effect upon the courts. And this was only the beginning of their

wisdom, but they have at last carried out the pancratiastic art to the very end, and have

mastered the only mode of fighting which had been hitherto neglected by them; and

now no one dares even to stand up against them: such is their skill in the war of words,

that they can refute any proposition whether true or false. Now I am thinking, Crito, of

placing myself in their hands; for they say that in a short time they can impart their skill

to any one.

CRITO: But, Socrates, are you not too old? there may be reason to fear that.

SOCRATES: Certainly not, Crito; as I will prove to you, for I have the consolation of

knowing that they began this art of disputation which I covet, quite, as I may say, in old

age; last year, or the year before, they had none of their new wisdom. I am only

apprehensive that I may bring the two strangers into disrepute, as I have done Connus

the son of Metrobius, the harp-player, who is still my music-master; for when the boys

who go to him see me going with them, they laugh at me and call him grandpapa's

master. Now I should not like the strangers to experience similar treatment; the fear of

ridicule may make them unwilling to receive me; and therefore, Crito, I shall try and

persuade some old men to accompany me to them, as I persuaded them to go with me

to Connus, and I hope that you will make one: and perhaps we had better take your

sons as a bait; they will want to have them as pupils, and for the sake of them willing to

receive us.

CRITO: I see no objection, Socrates, if you like; but first I wish that you would give me a

description of their wisdom, that I may know beforehand what we are going to learn.

SOCRATES: In less than no time you shall hear; for I cannot say that I did not attend—I

paid great attention to them, and I remember and will endeavour to repeat the whole

story. Providentially I was sitting alone in the dressing-room of the Lyceum where you

saw me, and was about to depart; when I was getting up I recognized the familiar divine

sign: so I sat down again, and in a little while the two brothers Euthydemus and

Dionysodorus came in, and several others with them, whom I believe to be their

disciples, and they walked about in the covered court; they had not taken more than

two or three turns when Cleinias entered, who, as you truly say, is very much improved:

he was followed by a host of lovers, one of whom was Ctesippus the Paeanian, a wellbred

youth, but also having the wildness of youth. Cleinias saw me from the entrance as

I was sitting alone, and at once came and sat down on the right hand of me, as you

describe; and Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, when they saw him, at first stopped and

talked with one another, now and then glancing at us, for I particularly watched them;

and then Euthydemus came and sat down by the youth, and the other by me on the left

hand; the rest anywhere. I saluted the brothers, whom I had not seen for a long time;

and then I said to Cleinias: Here are two wise men, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus,

Cleinias, wise not in a small but in a large way of wisdom, for they know all about war,—

all that a good general ought to know about the array and command of an army, and

the whole art of fighting in armour: and they know about law too, and can teach a man

how to use the weapons of the courts when he is injured.

They heard me say this, but only despised me. I observed that they looked at one

another, and both of them laughed; and then Euthydemus said: Those, Socrates, are

matters which we no longer pursue seriously; to us they are secondary occupations.

Indeed, I said, if such occupations are regarded by you as secondary, what must the

principal one be; tell me, I beseech you, what that noble study is?

The teaching of virtue, Socrates, he replied, is our principal occupation; and we believe

that we can impart it better and quicker than any man.

My God! I said, and where did you learn that? I always thought, as I was saying just now,

that your chief accomplishment was the art of fighting in armour; and I used to say as

much of you, for I remember that you professed this when you were here before. But

now if you really have the other knowledge, O forgive me: I address you as I would

superior beings, and ask you to pardon the impiety of my former expressions. But are

you quite sure about this, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus? the promise is so vast, that a

feeling of incredulity steals over me.

You may take our word, Socrates, for the fact.

Then I think you happier in having such a treasure than the great king is in the

possession of his kingdom. And please to tell me whether you intend to exhibit your

wisdom; or what will you do?

That is why we have come hither, Socrates; and our purpose is not only to exhibit, but

also to teach any one who likes to learn.

But I can promise you, I said, that every unvirtuous person will want to learn. I shall be

the first; and there is the youth Cleinias, and Ctesippus: and here are several others, I

said, pointing to the lovers of Cleinias, who were beginning to gather round us. Now

Ctesippus was sitting at some distance from Cleinias; and when Euthydemus leaned

forward in talking with me, he was prevented from seeing Cleinias, who was between us;

and so, partly because he wanted to look at his love, and also because he was

interested, he jumped up and stood opposite to us: and all the other admirers of

Cleinias, as well as the disciples of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, followed his example.

And these were the persons whom I showed to Euthydemus, telling him that they were

all eager to learn: to which Ctesippus and all of them with one voice vehemently

assented, and bid him exhibit the power of his wisdom. Then I said: O Euthydemus and

Dionysodorus, I earnestly request you to do myself and the company the favour to

exhibit. There may be some trouble in giving the whole exhibition; but tell me one

thing,—can you make a good man of him only who is already convinced that he ought

to learn of you, or of him also who is not convinced, either because he imagines that

virtue is a thing which cannot be taught at all, or that you are not the teachers of it? Has

your art power to persuade him, who is of the latter temper of mind, that virtue can be

taught; and that you are the men from whom he will best learn it?

Certainly, Socrates, said Dionysodorus; our art will do both.

And you and your brother, Dionysodorus, I said, of all men who are now living are the

most likely to stimulate him to philosophy and to the study of virtue?

Yes, Socrates, I rather think that we are.

Then I wish that you would be so good as to defer the other part of the exhibition, and

only try to persuade the youth whom you see here that he ought to be a philosopher

and study virtue. Exhibit that, and you will confer a great favour on me and on every one

present; for the fact is I and all of us are extremely anxious that he should become truly

good. His name is Cleinias, and he is the son of Axiochus, and grandson of the old

Alcibiades, cousin of the Alcibiades that now is. He is quite young, and we are naturally

afraid that some one may get the start of us, and turn his mind in a wrong direction, and

he may be ruined. Your visit, therefore, is most happily timed; and I hope that you will

make a trial of the young man, and converse with him in our presence, if you have no

objection.

These were pretty nearly the expressions which I used; and Euthydemus, in a manly and

at the same time encouraging tone, replied: There can be no objection, Socrates, if the

young man is only willing to answer questions.

He is quite accustomed to do so, I replied; for his friends often come and ask him

questions and argue with him; and therefore he is quite at home in answering.

What followed, Crito, how can I rightly narrate? For not slight is the task of rehearsing

infinite wisdom, and therefore, like the poets, I ought to commence my relation with an

invocation to Memory and the Muses. Now Euthydemus, if I remember rightly, began

nearly as follows: O Cleinias, are those who learn the wise or the ignorant?

The youth, overpowered by the question blushed, and in his perplexity looked at me for

help; and I, knowing that he was disconcerted, said: Take courage, Cleinias, and answer

like a man whichever you think; for my belief is that you will derive the greatest benefit

from their questions.

Whichever he answers, said Dionysodorus, leaning forward so as to catch my ear, his

face beaming with laughter, I prophesy that he will be refuted, Socrates.

While he was speaking to me, Cleinias gave his answer: and therefore I had no time to

warn him of the predicament in which he was placed, and he answered that those who

learned were the wise.

Euthydemus proceeded: There are some whom you would call teachers, are there not?

The boy assented.

And they are the teachers of those who learn—the grammar-master and the lyre-master

used to teach you and other boys; and you were the learners?

Yes.

And when you were learners you did not as yet know the things which you were

learning?

No, he said.

And were you wise then?

No, indeed, he said.

But if you were not wise you were unlearned?

Certainly.

You then, learning what you did not know, were unlearned when you were learning?

The youth nodded assent.

Then the unlearned learn, and not the wise, Cleinias, as you imagine.

At these words the followers of Euthydemus, of whom I spoke, like a chorus at the

bidding of their director, laughed and cheered. Then, before the youth had time to

recover his breath, Dionysodorus cleverly took him in hand, and said: Yes, Cleinias; and

when the grammar-master dictated anything to you, were they the wise boys or the

unlearned who learned the dictation?

The wise, replied Cleinias.

Then after all the wise are the learners and not the unlearned; and your last answer to

Euthydemus was wrong.

Then once more the admirers of the two heroes, in an ecstasy at their wisdom, gave

vent to another peal of laughter, while the rest of us were silent and amazed.

Euthydemus, observing this, determined to persevere with the youth; and in order to

heighten the effect went on asking another similar question, which might be compared

to the double turn of an expert dancer. Do those, said he, who learn, learn what they

know, or what they do not know?

Again Dionysodorus whispered to me: That, Socrates, is just another of the same sort.

Good heavens, I said; and your last question was so good!

Like all our other questions, Socrates, he replied—inevitable.

I see the reason, I said, why you are in such reputation among your disciples.

Meanwhile Cleinias had answered Euthydemus that those who learned learn what they

do not know; and he put him through a series of questions the same as before.

Do you not know letters?

He assented.

All letters?

Yes.

But when the teacher dictates to you, does he not dictate letters?

To this also he assented.

Then if you know all letters, he dictates that which you know?

This again was admitted by him.

Then, said the other, you do not learn that which he dictates; but he only who does not

know letters learns?

Nay, said Cleinias; but I do learn.

Then, said he, you learn what you know, if you know all the letters?

He admitted that.

Then, he said, you were wrong in your answer.

The word was hardly out of his mouth when Dionysodorus took up the argument, like a

ball which he caught, and had another throw at the youth. Cleinias, he said, Euthydemus

is deceiving you. For tell me now, is not learning acquiring knowledge of that which one

learns?

Cleinias assented.

And knowing is having knowledge at the time?

He agreed.

And not knowing is not having knowledge at the time?

He admitted that.

And are those who acquire those who have or have not a thing?

Those who have not.

And have you not admitted that those who do not know are of the number of those

who have not?

He nodded assent.

Then those who learn are of the class of those who acquire, and not of those who have?

He agreed.

Then, Cleinias, he said, those who do not know learn, and not those who know.

Euthydemus was proceeding to give the youth a third fall; but I knew that he was in

deep water, and therefore, as I wanted to give him a respite lest he should be

disheartened, I said to him consolingly: You must not be surprised, Cleinias, at the

singularity of their mode of speech: this I say because you may not understand what the

two strangers are doing with you; they are only initiating you after the manner of the

Corybantes in the mysteries; and this answers to the enthronement, which, if you have

ever been initiated, is, as you will know, accompanied by dancing and sport; and now

they are just prancing and dancing about you, and will next proceed to initiate you;

imagine then that you have gone through the first part of the sophistical ritual, which, as

Prodicus says, begins with initiation into the correct use of terms. The two foreign

gentlemen, perceiving that you did not know, wanted to explain to you that the word 'to

learn' has two meanings, and is used, first, in the sense of acquiring knowledge of some

matter of which you previously have no knowledge, and also, when you have the

knowledge, in the sense of reviewing this matter, whether something done or spoken by

the light of this newly-acquired knowledge; the latter is generally called 'knowing' rather

than 'learning,' but the word 'learning' is also used; and you did not see, as they

explained to you, that the term is employed of two opposite sorts of men, of those who

know, and of those who do not know. There was a similar trick in the second question,

when they asked you whether men learn what they know or what they do not know.

These parts of learning are not serious, and therefore I say that the gentlemen are not

serious, but are only playing with you. For if a man had all that sort of knowledge that

ever was, he would not be at all the wiser; he would only be able to play with men,

tripping them up and oversetting them with distinctions of words. He would be like a

person who pulls away a stool from some one when he is about to sit down, and then

laughs and makes merry at the sight of his friend overturned and laid on his back. And

you must regard all that has hitherto passed between you and them as merely play. But

in what is to follow I am certain that they will exhibit to you their serious purpose, and

keep their promise (I will show them how); for they promised to give me a sample of the

hortatory philosophy, but I suppose that they wanted to have a game with you first. And

now, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, I think that we have had enough of this. Will you

let me see you explaining to the young man how he is to apply himself to the study of

virtue and wisdom? And I will first show you what I conceive to be the nature of the task,

and what sort of a discourse I desire to hear; and if I do this in a very inartistic and

ridiculous manner, do not laugh at me, for I only venture to improvise before you

because I am eager to hear your wisdom: and I must therefore ask you and your

disciples to refrain from laughing. And now, O son of Axiochus, let me put a question to

you: Do not all men desire happiness? And yet, perhaps, this is one of those ridiculous

questions which I am afraid to ask, and which ought not to be asked by a sensible man:

for what human being is there who does not desire happiness?

There is no one, said Cleinias, who does not.

Well, then, I said, since we all of us desire happiness, how can we be happy?—that is the

next question. Shall we not be happy if we have many good things? And this, perhaps, is

even a more simple question than the first, for there can be no doubt of the answer.

He assented.

And what things do we esteem good? No solemn sage is required to tell us this, which

may be easily answered; for every one will say that wealth is a good.

Certainly, he said.

And are not health and beauty goods, and other personal gifts?

He agreed.

Can there be any doubt that good birth, and power, and honours in one's own land, are

goods?

He assented.

And what other goods are there? I said. What do you say of temperance, justice,

courage: do you not verily and indeed think, Cleinias, that we shall be more right in

ranking them as goods than in not ranking them as goods? For a dispute might possibly

arise about this. What then do you say?

They are goods, said Cleinias.

Very well, I said; and where in the company shall we find a place for wisdom—among

the goods or not?

Among the goods.

And now, I said, think whether we have left out any considerable goods.

I do not think that we have, said Cleinias.

Upon recollection, I said, indeed I am afraid that we have left out the greatest of them

all.

What is that? he asked.

Fortune, Cleinias, I replied; which all, even the most foolish, admit to be the greatest of

goods.

True, he said.

On second thoughts, I added, how narrowly, O son of Axiochus, have you and I escaped

making a laughing-stock of ourselves to the strangers.

Why do you say so?

Why, because we have already spoken of good-fortune, and are but repeating ourselves.

What do you mean?

I mean that there is something ridiculous in again putting forward good- fortune, which

has a place in the list already, and saying the same thing twice over.

He asked what was the meaning of this, and I replied: Surely wisdom is good-fortune;

even a child may know that.

The simple-minded youth was amazed; and, observing his surprise, I said to him: Do you

not know, Cleinias, that flute-players are most fortunate and successful in performing on

the flute?

He assented.

And are not the scribes most fortunate in writing and reading letters?

Certainly.

Amid the dangers of the sea, again, are any more fortunate on the whole than wise

pilots?

None, certainly.

And if you were engaged in war, in whose company would you rather take the risk—in

company with a wise general, or with a foolish one?

With a wise one.

And if you were ill, whom would you rather have as a companion in a dangerous

illness—a wise physician, or an ignorant one?

A wise one.

You think, I said, that to act with a wise man is more fortunate than to act with an

ignorant one?

He assented.

Then wisdom always makes men fortunate: for by wisdom no man would ever err, and

therefore he must act rightly and succeed, or his wisdom would be wisdom no longer.

We contrived at last, somehow or other, to agree in a general conclusion, that he who

had wisdom had no need of fortune. I then recalled to his mind the previous state of the

question. You remember, I said, our making the admission that we should be happy and

fortunate if many good things were present with us?

He assented.

And should we be happy by reason of the presence of good things, if they profited us

not, or if they profited us?

If they profited us, he said.

And would they profit us, if we only had them and did not use them? For example, if we

had a great deal of food and did not eat, or a great deal of drink and did not drink,

should we be profited?

Certainly not, he said.

Or would an artisan, who had all the implements necessary for his work, and did not use

them, be any the better for the possession of them? For example, would a carpenter be

any the better for having all his tools and plenty of wood, if he never worked?

Certainly not, he said.

And if a person had wealth and all the goods of which we were just now speaking, and

did not use them, would he be happy because he possessed them?

No indeed, Socrates.

Then, I said, a man who would be happy must not only have the good things, but he

must also use them; there is no advantage in merely having them?

True.

Well, Cleinias, but if you have the use as well as the possession of good things, is that

sufficient to confer happiness?

Yes, in my opinion.

And may a person use them either rightly or wrongly?

He must use them rightly.

That is quite true, I said. And the wrong use of a thing is far worse than the non-use; for

the one is an evil, and the other is neither a good nor an evil. You admit that?

He assented.

Now in the working and use of wood, is not that which gives the right use simply the

knowledge of the carpenter?

Nothing else, he said.

And surely, in the manufacture of vessels, knowledge is that which gives the right way of

making them?

He agreed.

And in the use of the goods of which we spoke at first—wealth and health and beauty,

is not knowledge that which directs us to the right use of them, and regulates our

practice about them?

He assented.

Then in every possession and every use of a thing, knowledge is that which gives a man

not only good-fortune but success?

He again assented.

And tell me, I said, O tell me, what do possessions profit a man, if he have neither good

sense nor wisdom? Would a man be better off, having and doing many things without

wisdom, or a few things with wisdom? Look at the matter thus: If he did fewer things

would he not make fewer mistakes? if he made fewer mistakes would he not have fewer

misfortunes? and if he had fewer misfortunes would he not be less miserable?

Certainly, he said.

And who would do least—a poor man or a rich man?

A poor man.

A weak man or a strong man?

A weak man.

A noble man or a mean man?

A mean man.

And a coward would do less than a courageous and temperate man?

Yes.

And an indolent man less than an active man?

He assented.

And a slow man less than a quick; and one who had dull perceptions of seeing and

hearing less than one who had keen ones?

All this was mutually allowed by us.

Then, I said, Cleinias, the sum of the matter appears to be that the goods of which we

spoke before are not to be regarded as goods in themselves, but the degree of good

and evil in them depends on whether they are or are not under the guidance of

knowledge: under the guidance of ignorance, they are greater evils than their opposites,

inasmuch as they are more able to minister to the evil principle which rules them; and

when under the guidance of wisdom and prudence, they are greater goods: but in

themselves they are nothing?

That, he replied, is obvious.

What then is the result of what has been said? Is not this the result— that other things

are indifferent, and that wisdom is the only good, and ignorance the only evil?

He assented.

Let us consider a further point, I said: Seeing that all men desire happiness, and

happiness, as has been shown, is gained by a use, and a right use, of the things of life,

and the right use of them, and good- fortune in the use of them, is given by

knowledge,—the inference is that everybody ought by all means to try and make

himself as wise as he can?

Yes, he said.

And when a man thinks that he ought to obtain this treasure, far more than money,

from a father or a guardian or a friend or a suitor, whether citizen or stranger—the

eager desire and prayer to them that they would impart wisdom to you, is not at all

dishonourable, Cleinias; nor is any one to be blamed for doing any honourable service

or ministration to any man, whether a lover or not, if his aim is to get wisdom. Do you

agree? I said.

Yes, he said, I quite agree, and think that you are right.

Yes, I said, Cleinias, if only wisdom can be taught, and does not come to man

spontaneously; for this is a point which has still to be considered, and is not yet agreed

upon by you and me—

But I think, Socrates, that wisdom can be taught, he said.

Best of men, I said, I am delighted to hear you say so; and I am also grateful to you for

having saved me from a long and tiresome investigation as to whether wisdom can be

taught or not. But now, as you think that wisdom can be taught, and that wisdom only

can make a man happy and fortunate, will you not acknowledge that all of us ought to

love wisdom, and you individually will try to love her?

Certainly, Socrates, he said; I will do my best.

I was pleased at hearing this; and I turned to Dionysodorus and Euthydemus and said:

That is an example, clumsy and tedious I admit, of the sort of exhortations which I would

have you give; and I hope that one of you will set forth what I have been saying in a

more artistic style: or at least take up the enquiry where I left off, and proceed to show

the youth whether he should have all knowledge; or whether there is one sort of

knowledge only which will make him good and happy, and what that is. For, as I was

saying at first, the improvement of this young man in virtue and wisdom is a matter

which we have very much at heart.

Thus I spoke, Crito, and was all attention to what was coming. I wanted to see how they

would approach the question, and where they would start in their exhortation to the

young man that he should practise wisdom and virtue. Dionysodorus, who was the

elder, spoke first. Everybody's eyes were directed towards him, perceiving that

something wonderful might shortly be expected. And certainly they were not far wrong;

for the man, Crito, began a remarkable discourse well worth hearing, and wonderfully

persuasive regarded as an exhortation to virtue.

Tell me, he said, Socrates and the rest of you who say that you want this young man to

become wise, are you in jest or in real earnest?

I was led by this to imagine that they fancied us to have been jesting when we asked

them to converse with the youth, and that this made them jest and play, and being

under this impression, I was the more decided in saying that we were in profound

earnest. Dionysodorus said:

Reflect, Socrates; you may have to deny your words.

I have reflected, I said; and I shall never deny my words.

Well, said he, and so you say that you wish Cleinias to become wise?

Undoubtedly.

And he is not wise as yet?

At least his modesty will not allow him to say that he is.

You wish him, he said, to become wise and not, to be ignorant?

That we do.

You wish him to be what he is not, and no longer to be what he is?

I was thrown into consternation at this.

Taking advantage of my consternation he added: You wish him no longer to be what he

is, which can only mean that you wish him to perish. Pretty lovers and friends they must

be who want their favourite not to be, or to perish!

When Ctesippus heard this he got very angry (as a lover well might) and said: Stranger

of Thurii—if politeness would allow me I should say, A plague upon you! What can make

you tell such a lie about me and the others, which I hardly like to repeat, as that I wish

Cleinias to perish?

Euthydemus replied: And do you think, Ctesippus, that it is possible to tell a lie?

Yes, said Ctesippus; I should be mad to say anything else.

And in telling a lie, do you tell the thing of which you speak or not?

You tell the thing of which you speak.

And he who tells, tells that thing which he tells, and no other?

Yes, said Ctesippus.

And that is a distinct thing apart from other things?

Certainly.

And he who says that thing says that which is?

Yes.

And he who says that which is, says the truth. And therefore Dionysodorus, if he says

that which is, says the truth of you and no lie.

Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; but in saying this, he says what is not.

Euthydemus answered: And that which is not is not?

True.

And that which is not is nowhere?

Nowhere.

And can any one do anything about that which has no existence, or do to Cleinias that

which is not and is nowhere?

I think not, said Ctesippus.

Well, but do rhetoricians, when they speak in the assembly, do nothing?

Nay, he said, they do something.

And doing is making?

Yes.

And speaking is doing and making?

He agreed.

Then no one says that which is not, for in saying what is not he would be doing

something; and you have already acknowledged that no one can do what is not. And

therefore, upon your own showing, no one says what is false; but if Dionysodorus says

anything, he says what is true and what is.

Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; but he speaks of things in a certain way and manner,

and not as they really are.

Why, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus, do you mean to say that any one speaks of things

as they are?

Yes, he said—all gentlemen and truth-speaking persons.

And are not good things good, and evil things evil?

He assented.

And you say that gentlemen speak of things as they are?

Yes.

Then the good speak evil of evil things, if they speak of them as they are?

Yes, indeed, he said; and they speak evil of evil men. And if I may give you a piece of

advice, you had better take care that they do not speak evil of you, since I can tell you

that the good speak evil of the evil.

And do they speak great things of the great, rejoined Euthydemus, and warm things of

the warm?

To be sure they do, said Ctesippus; and they speak coldly of the insipid and cold

dialectician.

You are abusive, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus, you are abusive!

Indeed, I am not, Dionysodorus, he replied; for I love you and am giving you friendly

advice, and, if I could, would persuade you not like a boor to say in my presence that I

desire my beloved, whom I value above all men, to perish.

I saw that they were getting exasperated with one another, so I made a joke with him

and said: O Ctesippus, I think that we must allow the strangers to use language in their

own way, and not quarrel with them about words, but be thankful for what they give us.

If they know how to destroy men in such a way as to make good and sensible men out

of bad and foolish ones— whether this is a discovery of their own, or whether they have

learned from some one else this new sort of death and destruction which enables them

to get rid of a bad man and turn him into a good one—if they know this (and they do

know this—at any rate they said just now that this was the secret of their newlydiscovered

art)—let them, in their phraseology, destroy the youth and make him wise,

and all of us with him. But if you young men do not like to trust yourselves with them,

then fiat experimentum in corpore senis; I will be the Carian on whom they shall

operate. And here I offer my old person to Dionysodorus; he may put me into the pot,

like Medea the Colchian, kill me, boil me, if he will only make me good.

Ctesippus said: And I, Socrates, am ready to commit myself to the strangers; they may

skin me alive, if they please (and I am pretty well skinned by them already), if only my

skin is made at last, not like that of Marsyas, into a leathern bottle, but into a piece of

virtue. And here is Dionysodorus fancying that I am angry with him, when really I am not

angry at all; I do but contradict him when I think that he is speaking improperly to me:

and you must not confound abuse and contradiction, O illustrious Dionysodorus; for

they are quite different things.

Contradiction! said Dionysodorus; why, there never was such a thing.

Certainly there is, he replied; there can be no question of that. Do you, Dionysodorus,

maintain that there is not?

You will never prove to me, he said, that you have heard any one contradicting any one

else.

Indeed, said Ctesippus; then now you may hear me contradicting Dionysodorus.

Are you prepared to make that good?

Certainly, he said.

Well, have not all things words expressive of them?

Yes.

Of their existence or of their non-existence?

Of their existence.

Yes, Ctesippus, and we just now proved, as you may remember, that no man could

affirm a negative; for no one could affirm that which is not.

And what does that signify? said Ctesippus; you and I may contradict all the same for

that.

But can we contradict one another, said Dionysodorus, when both of us are describing

the same thing? Then we must surely be speaking the same thing?

He assented.

Or when neither of us is speaking of the same thing? For then neither of us says a word

about the thing at all?

He granted that proposition also.

But when I describe something and you describe another thing, or I say something and

you say nothing—is there any contradiction? How can he who speaks contradict him

who speaks not?

Here Ctesippus was silent; and I in my astonishment said: What do you mean,

Dionysodorus? I have often heard, and have been amazed to hear, this thesis of yours,

which is maintained and employed by the disciples of Protagoras, and others before

them, and which to me appears to be quite wonderful, and suicidal as well as

destructive, and I think that I am most likely to hear the truth about it from you. The

dictum is that there is no such thing as falsehood; a man must either say what is true or

say nothing. Is not that your position?

He assented.

But if he cannot speak falsely, may he not think falsely?

No, he cannot, he said.

Then there is no such thing as false opinion?

No, he said.

Then there is no such thing as ignorance, or men who are ignorant; for is not ignorance,

if there be such a thing, a mistake of fact?

Certainly, he said.

And that is impossible?

Impossible, he replied.

Are you saying this as a paradox, Dionysodorus; or do you seriously maintain no man to

be ignorant?

Refute me, he said.

But how can I refute you, if, as you say, to tell a falsehood is impossible?

Very true, said Euthydemus.

Neither did I tell you just now to refute me, said Dionysodorus; for how can I tell you to

do that which is not?

O Euthydemus, I said, I have but a dull conception of these subtleties and excellent

devices of wisdom; I am afraid that I hardly understand them, and you must forgive me

therefore if I ask a very stupid question: if there be no falsehood or false opinion or

ignorance, there can be no such thing as erroneous action, for a man cannot fail of

acting as he is acting—that is what you mean?

Yes, he replied.

And now, I said, I will ask my stupid question: If there is no such thing as error in deed,

word, or thought, then what, in the name of goodness, do you come hither to teach?

And were you not just now saying that you could teach virtue best of all men, to any

one who was willing to learn?

And are you such an old fool, Socrates, rejoined Dionysodorus, that you bring up now

what I said at first—and if I had said anything last year, I suppose that you would bring

that up too—but are non-plussed at the words which I have just uttered?

Why, I said, they are not easy to answer; for they are the words of wise men: and indeed

I know not what to make of this word 'nonplussed,' which you used last: what do you

mean by it, Dionysodorus? You must mean that I cannot refute your argument. Tell me if

the words have any other sense.

No, he replied, they mean what you say. And now answer.

What, before you, Dionysodorus? I said.

Answer, said he.

And is that fair?

Yes, quite fair, he said.

Upon what principle? I said. I can only suppose that you are a very wise man who comes

to us in the character of a great logician, and who knows when to answer and when not

to answer—and now you will not open your mouth at all, because you know that you

ought not.

You prate, he said, instead of answering. But if, my good sir, you admit that I am wise,

answer as I tell you.

I suppose that I must obey, for you are master. Put the question.

Are the things which have sense alive or lifeless?

They are alive.

And do you know of any word which is alive?

I cannot say that I do.

Then why did you ask me what sense my words had?

Why, because I was stupid and made a mistake. And yet, perhaps, I was right after all in

saying that words have a sense;—what do you say, wise man? If I was not in error, even

you will not refute me, and all your wisdom will be non-plussed; but if I did fall into

error, then again you are wrong in saying that there is no error,—and this remark was

made by you not quite a year ago. I am inclined to think, however, Dionysodorus and

Euthydemus, that this argument lies where it was and is not very likely to advance: even

your skill in the subtleties of logic, which is really amazing, has not found out the way of

throwing another and not falling yourself, now any more than of old.

Ctesippus said: Men of Chios, Thurii, or however and whatever you call yourselves, I

wonder at you, for you seem to have no objection to talking nonsense.

Fearing that there would be high words, I again endeavoured to soothe Ctesippus, and

said to him: To you, Ctesippus, I must repeat what I said before to Cleinias—that you do

not understand the ways of these philosophers from abroad. They are not serious, but,

like the Egyptian wizard, Proteus, they take different forms and deceive us by their

enchantments: and let us, like Menelaus, refuse to let them go until they show

themselves to us in earnest. When they begin to be in earnest their full beauty will

appear: let us then beg and entreat and beseech them to shine forth. And I think that I

had better once more exhibit the form in which I pray to behold them; it might be a

guide to them. I will go on therefore where I left off, as well as I can, in the hope that I

may touch their hearts and move them to pity, and that when they see me deeply

serious and interested, they also may be serious. You, Cleinias, I said, shall remind me at

what point we left off. Did we not agree that philosophy should be studied? and was not

that our conclusion?

Yes, he replied.

And philosophy is the acquisition of knowledge?

Yes, he said.

And what knowledge ought we to acquire? May we not answer with absolute truth—A

knowledge which will do us good?

Certainly, he said.

And should we be any the better if we went about having a knowledge of the places

where most gold was hidden in the earth?

Perhaps we should, he said.

But have we not already proved, I said, that we should be none the better off, even if

without trouble and digging all the gold which there is in the earth were ours? And if we

knew how to convert stones into gold, the knowledge would be of no value to us, unless

we also knew how to use the gold? Do you not remember? I said.

I quite remember, he said.

Nor would any other knowledge, whether of money-making, or of medicine, or of any

other art which knows only how to make a thing, and not to use it when made, be of

any good to us. Am I not right?

He agreed.

And if there were a knowledge which was able to make men immortal, without giving

them the knowledge of the way to use the immortality, neither would there be any use

in that, if we may argue from the analogy of the previous instances?

To all this he agreed.

Then, my dear boy, I said, the knowledge which we want is one that uses as well as

makes?

True, he said.

And our desire is not to be skilful lyre-makers, or artists of that sort— far otherwise; for

with them the art which makes is one, and the art which uses is another. Although they

have to do with the same, they are divided: for the art which makes and the art which

plays on the lyre differ widely from one another. Am I not right?

He agreed.

And clearly we do not want the art of the flute-maker; this is only another of the same

sort?

He assented.

But suppose, I said, that we were to learn the art of making speeches— would that be

the art which would make us happy?

I should say, no, rejoined Cleinias.

And why should you say so? I asked.

I see, he replied, that there are some composers of speeches who do not know how to

use the speeches which they make, just as the makers of lyres do not know how to use

the lyres; and also some who are of themselves unable to compose speeches, but are

able to use the speeches which the others make for them; and this proves that the art of

making speeches is not the same as the art of using them.

Yes, I said; and I take your words to be a sufficient proof that the art of making speeches

is not one which will make a man happy. And yet I did think that the art which we have

so long been seeking might be discovered in that direction; for the composers of

speeches, whenever I meet them, always appear to me to be very extraordinary men,

Cleinias, and their art is lofty and divine, and no wonder. For their art is a part of the

great art of enchantment, and hardly, if at all, inferior to it: and whereas the art of the

enchanter is a mode of charming snakes and spiders and scorpions, and other monsters

and pests, this art of their's acts upon dicasts and ecclesiasts and bodies of men, for the

charming and pacifying of them. Do you agree with me?

Yes, he said, I think that you are quite right.

Whither then shall we go, I said, and to what art shall we have recourse?

I do not see my way, he said.

But I think that I do, I replied.

And what is your notion? asked Cleinias.

I think that the art of the general is above all others the one of which the possession is

most likely to make a man happy.

I do not think so, he said.

Why not? I said.

The art of the general is surely an art of hunting mankind.

What of that? I said.

Why, he said, no art of hunting extends beyond hunting and capturing; and when the

prey is taken the huntsman or fisherman cannot use it; but they hand it over to the cook,

and the geometricians and astronomers and calculators (who all belong to the hunting

class, for they do not make their diagrams, but only find out that which was previously

contained in them)—they, I say, not being able to use but only to catch their prey, hand

over their inventions to the dialectician to be applied by him, if they have any sense in

them.

Good, I said, fairest and wisest Cleinias. And is this true?

Certainly, he said; just as a general when he takes a city or a camp hands over his new

acquisition to the statesman, for he does not know how to use them himself; or as the

quail-taker transfers the quails to the keeper of them. If we are looking for the art which

is to make us blessed, and which is able to use that which it makes or takes, the art of

the general is not the one, and some other must be found.

CRITO: And do you mean, Socrates, that the youngster said all this?

SOCRATES: Are you incredulous, Crito?

CRITO: Indeed, I am; for if he did say so, then in my opinion he needs neither

Euthydemus nor any one else to be his instructor.

SOCRATES: Perhaps I may have forgotten, and Ctesippus was the real answerer.

CRITO: Ctesippus! nonsense.

SOCRATES: All I know is that I heard these words, and that they were not spoken either

by Euthydemus or Dionysodorus. I dare say, my good Crito, that they may have been

spoken by some superior person: that I heard them I am certain.

CRITO: Yes, indeed, Socrates, by some one a good deal superior, as I should be disposed

to think. But did you carry the search any further, and did you find the art which you

were seeking?

SOCRATES: Find! my dear sir, no indeed. And we cut a poor figure; we were like children

after larks, always on the point of catching the art, which was always getting away from

us. But why should I repeat the whole story? At last we came to the kingly art, and

enquired whether that gave and caused happiness, and then we got into a labyrinth,

and when we thought we were at the end, came out again at the beginning, having still

to seek as much as ever.

CRITO: How did that happen, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I will tell you; the kingly art was identified by us with the political.

CRITO: Well, and what came of that?

SOCRATES: To this royal or political art all the arts, including the art of the general,

seemed to render up the supremacy, that being the only one which knew how to use

what they produce. Here obviously was the very art which we were seeking—the art

which is the source of good government, and which may be described, in the language

of Aeschylus, as alone sitting at the helm of the vessel of state, piloting and governing

all things, and utilizing them.

CRITO: And were you not right, Socrates?

SOCRATES: You shall judge, Crito, if you are willing to hear what followed; for we

resumed the enquiry, and a question of this sort was asked: Does the kingly art, having

this supreme authority, do anything for us? To be sure, was the answer. And would not

you, Crito, say the same?

CRITO: Yes, I should.

SOCRATES: And what would you say that the kingly art does? If medicine were

supposed to have supreme authority over the subordinate arts, and I were to ask you a

similar question about that, you would say—it produces health?

CRITO: I should.

SOCRATES: And what of your own art of husbandry, supposing that to have supreme

authority over the subject arts—what does that do? Does it not supply us with the fruits

of the earth?

CRITO: Yes.

SOCRATES: And what does the kingly art do when invested with supreme power?

Perhaps you may not be ready with an answer?

CRITO: Indeed I am not, Socrates.

SOCRATES: No more were we, Crito. But at any rate you know that if this is the art which

we were seeking, it ought to be useful.

CRITO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And surely it ought to do us some good?

CRITO: Certainly, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And Cleinias and I had arrived at the conclusion that knowledge of some

kind is the only good.

CRITO: Yes, that was what you were saying.

SOCRATES: All the other results of politics, and they are many, as for example, wealth,

freedom, tranquillity, were neither good nor evil in themselves; but the political science

ought to make us wise, and impart knowledge to us, if that is the science which is likely

to do us good, and make us happy.

CRITO: Yes; that was the conclusion at which you had arrived, according to your report

of the conversation.

SOCRATES: And does the kingly art make men wise and good?

CRITO: Why not, Socrates?

SOCRATES: What, all men, and in every respect? and teach them all the arts,—

carpentering, and cobbling, and the rest of them?

CRITO: I think not, Socrates.

SOCRATES: But then what is this knowledge, and what are we to do with it? For it is not

the source of any works which are neither good nor evil, and gives no knowledge, but

the knowledge of itself; what then can it be, and what are we to do with it? Shall we say,

Crito, that it is the knowledge by which we are to make other men good?

CRITO: By all means.

SOCRATES: And in what will they be good and useful? Shall we repeat that they will

make others good, and that these others will make others again, without ever

determining in what they are to be good; for we have put aside the results of politics, as

they are called. This is the old, old song over again; and we are just as far as ever, if not

farther, from the knowledge of the art or science of happiness.

CRITO: Indeed, Socrates, you do appear to have got into a great perplexity.

SOCRATES: Thereupon, Crito, seeing that I was on the point of shipwreck, I lifted up my

voice, and earnestly entreated and called upon the strangers to save me and the youth

from the whirlpool of the argument; they were our Castor and Pollux, I said, and they

should be serious, and show us in sober earnest what that knowledge was which would

enable us to pass the rest of our lives in happiness.

CRITO: And did Euthydemus show you this knowledge?

SOCRATES: Yes, indeed; he proceeded in a lofty strain to the following effect: Would you

rather, Socrates, said he, that I should show you this knowledge about which you have

been doubting, or shall I prove that you already have it?

What, I said, are you blessed with such a power as this?

Indeed I am.

Then I would much rather that you should prove me to have such a knowledge; at my

time of life that will be more agreeable than having to learn.

Then tell me, he said, do you know anything?

Yes, I said, I know many things, but not anything of much importance.

That will do, he said: And would you admit that anything is what it is, and at the same

time is not what it is?

Certainly not.

And did you not say that you knew something?

I did.

If you know, you are knowing.

Certainly, of the knowledge which I have.

That makes no difference;—and must you not, if you are knowing, know all things?

Certainly not, I said, for there are many other things which I do not know.

And if you do not know, you are not knowing.

Yes, friend, of that which I do not know.

Still you are not knowing, and you said just now that you were knowing; and therefore

you are and are not at the same time, and in reference to the same things.

A pretty clatter, as men say, Euthydemus, this of yours! and will you explain how I

possess that knowledge for which we were seeking? Do you mean to say that the same

thing cannot be and also not be; and therefore, since I know one thing, that I know all,

for I cannot be knowing and not knowing at the same time, and if I know all things, then

I must have the knowledge for which we are seeking—May I assume this to be your

ingenious notion?

Out of your own mouth, Socrates, you are convicted, he said.

Well, but, Euthydemus, I said, has that never happened to you? for if I am only in the

same case with you and our beloved Dionysodorus, I cannot complain. Tell me, then,

you two, do you not know some things, and not know others?

Certainly not, Socrates, said Dionysodorus.

What do you mean, I said; do you know nothing?

Nay, he replied, we do know something.

Then, I said, you know all things, if you know anything?

Yes, all things, he said; and that is as true of you as of us.

O, indeed, I said, what a wonderful thing, and what a great blessing! And do all other

men know all things or nothing?

Certainly, he replied; they cannot know some things, and not know others, and be at the

same time knowing and not knowing.

Then what is the inference? I said.

They all know all things, he replied, if they know one thing.

O heavens, Dionysodorus, I said, I see now that you are in earnest; hardly have I got you

to that point. And do you really and truly know all things, including carpentering and

leather-cutting?

Certainly, he said.

And do you know stitching?

Yes, by the gods, we do, and cobbling, too.

And do you know things such as the numbers of the stars and of the sand?

Certainly; did you think we should say No to that?

By Zeus, said Ctesippus, interrupting, I only wish that you would give me some proof

which would enable me to know whether you speak truly.

What proof shall I give you? he said.

Will you tell me how many teeth Euthydemus has? and Euthydemus shall tell how many

teeth you have.

Will you not take our word that we know all things?

Certainly not, said Ctesippus: you must further tell us this one thing, and then we shall

know that you are speak the truth; if you tell us the number, and we count them, and

you are found to be right, we will believe the rest. They fancied that Ctesippus was

making game of them, and they refused, and they would only say in answer to each of

his questions, that they knew all things. For at last Ctesippus began to throw off all

restraint; no question in fact was too bad for him; he would ask them if they knew the

foulest things, and they, like wild boars, came rushing on his blows, and fearlessly

replied that they did. At last, Crito, I too was carried away by my incredulity, and asked

Euthydemus whether Dionysodorus could dance.

Certainly, he replied.

And can he vault among swords, and turn upon a wheel, at his age? has he got to such a

height of skill as that?

He can do anything, he said.

And did you always know this?

Always, he said.

When you were children, and at your birth?

They both said that they did.

This we could not believe. And Euthydemus said: You are incredulous, Socrates.

Yes, I said, and I might well be incredulous, if I did not know you to be wise men.

But if you will answer, he said, I will make you confess to similar marvels.

Well, I said, there is nothing that I should like better than to be self- convicted of this,

for if I am really a wise man, which I never knew before, and you will prove to me that I

know and have always known all things, nothing in life would be a greater gain to me.

Answer then, he said.

Ask, I said, and I will answer.

Do you know something, Socrates, or nothing?

Something, I said.

And do you know with what you know, or with something else?

With what I know; and I suppose that you mean with my soul?

Are you not ashamed, Socrates, of asking a question when you are asked one?

Well, I said; but then what am I to do? for I will do whatever you bid; when I do not

know what you are asking, you tell me to answer nevertheless, and not to ask again.

Why, you surely have some notion of my meaning, he said.

Yes, I replied.

Well, then, answer according to your notion of my meaning.

Yes, I said; but if the question which you ask in one sense is understood and answered

by me in another, will that please you—if I answer what is not to the point?

That will please me very well; but will not please you equally well, as I imagine.

I certainly will not answer unless I understand you, I said.

You will not answer, he said, according to your view of the meaning, because you will be

prating, and are an ancient.

Now I saw that he was getting angry with me for drawing distinctions, when he wanted

to catch me in his springes of words. And I remembered that Connus was always angry

with me when I opposed him, and then he neglected me, because he thought that I was

stupid; and as I was intending to go to Euthydemus as a pupil, I reflected that I had

better let him have his way, as he might think me a blockhead, and refuse to take me. So

I said: You are a far better dialectician than myself, Euthydemus, for I have never made a

profession of the art, and therefore do as you say; ask your questions once more, and I

will answer.

Answer then, he said, again, whether you know what you know with something, or with

nothing.

Yes, I said; I know with my soul.

The man will answer more than the question; for I did not ask you, he said, with what

you know, but whether you know with something.

Again I replied, Through ignorance I have answered too much, but I hope that you will

forgive me. And now I will answer simply that I always know what I know with

something.

And is that something, he rejoined, always the same, or sometimes one thing, and

sometimes another thing?

Always, I replied, when I know, I know with this.

Will you not cease adding to your answers?

My fear is that this word 'always' may get us into trouble.

You, perhaps, but certainly not us. And now answer: Do you always know with this?

Always; since I am required to withdraw the words 'when I know.'

You always know with this, or, always knowing, do you know some things with this, and

some things with something else, or do you know all things with this?

All that I know, I replied, I know with this.

There again, Socrates, he said, the addition is superfluous.

Well, then, I said, I will take away the words 'that I know.'

Nay, take nothing away; I desire no favours of you; but let me ask: Would you be able to

know all things, if you did not know all things?

Quite impossible.

And now, he said, you may add on whatever you like, for you confess that you know all

things.

I suppose that is true, I said, if my qualification implied in the words 'that I know' is not

allowed to stand; and so I do know all things.

And have you not admitted that you always know all things with that which you know,

whether you make the addition of 'when you know them' or not? for you have

acknowledged that you have always and at once known all things, that is to say, when

you were a child, and at your birth, and when you were growing up, and before you

were born, and before the heaven and earth existed, you knew all things, if you always

know them; and I swear that you shall always continue to know all things, if I am of the

mind to make you.

But I hope that you will be of that mind, reverend Euthydemus, I said, if you are really

speaking the truth, and yet I a little doubt your power to make good your words unless

you have the help of your brother Dionysodorus; then you may do it. Tell me now, both

of you, for although in the main I cannot doubt that I really do know all things, when I

am told so by men of your prodigious wisdom—how can I say that I know such things,

Euthydemus, as that the good are unjust; come, do I know that or not?

Certainly, you know that.

What do I know?

That the good are not unjust.

Quite true, I said; and that I have always known; but the question is, where did I learn

that the good are unjust?

Nowhere, said Dionysodorus.

Then, I said, I do not know this.

You are ruining the argument, said Euthydemus to Dionysodorus; he will be proved not

to know, and then after all he will be knowing and not knowing at the same time.

Dionysodorus blushed.

I turned to the other, and said, What do you think, Euthydemus? Does not your

omniscient brother appear to you to have made a mistake?

What, replied Dionysodorus in a moment; am I the brother of Euthydemus?

Thereupon I said, Please not to interrupt, my good friend, or prevent Euthydemus from

proving to me that I know the good to be unjust; such a lesson you might at least allow

me to learn.

You are running away, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, and refusing to answer.

No wonder, I said, for I am not a match for one of you, and a fortiori I must run away

from two. I am no Heracles; and even Heracles could not fight against the Hydra, who

was a she-Sophist, and had the wit to shoot up many new heads when one of them was

cut off; especially when he saw a second monster of a sea-crab, who was also a Sophist,

and appeared to have newly arrived from a sea-voyage, bearing down upon him from

the left, opening his mouth and biting. When the monster was growing troublesome he

called Iolaus, his nephew, to his help, who ably succoured him; but if my Iolaus, who is

my brother Patrocles (the statuary), were to come, he would only make a bad business

worse.

And now that you have delivered yourself of this strain, said Dionysodorus, will you

inform me whether Iolaus was the nephew of Heracles any more than he is yours?

I suppose that I had best answer you, Dionysodorus, I said, for you will insist on asking—

that I pretty well know—out of envy, in order to prevent me from learning the wisdom

of Euthydemus.

Then answer me, he said.

Well then, I said, I can only reply that Iolaus was not my nephew at all, but the nephew

of Heracles; and his father was not my brother Patrocles, but Iphicles, who has a name

rather like his, and was the brother of Heracles.

And is Patrocles, he said, your brother?

Yes, I said, he is my half-brother, the son of my mother, but not of my father.

Then he is and is not your brother.

Not by the same father, my good man, I said, for Chaeredemus was his father, and mine

was Sophroniscus.

And was Sophroniscus a father, and Chaeredemus also?

Yes, I said; the former was my father, and the latter his.

Then, he said, Chaeredemus is not a father.

He is not my father, I said.

But can a father be other than a father? or are you the same as a stone?

I certainly do not think that I am a stone, I said, though I am afraid that you may prove

me to be one.

Are you not other than a stone?

I am.

And being other than a stone, you are not a stone; and being other than gold, you are

not gold?

Very true.

And so Chaeredemus, he said, being other than a father, is not a father?

I suppose that he is not a father, I replied.

For if, said Euthydemus, taking up the argument, Chaeredemus is a father, then

Sophroniscus, being other than a father, is not a father; and you, Socrates, are without a

father.

Ctesippus, here taking up the argument, said: And is not your father in the same case,

for he is other than my father?

Assuredly not, said Euthydemus.

Then he is the same?

He is the same.

I cannot say that I like the connection; but is he only my father, Euthydemus, or is he the

father of all other men?

Of all other men, he replied. Do you suppose the same person to be a father and not a

father?

Certainly, I did so imagine, said Ctesippus.

And do you suppose that gold is not gold, or that a man is not a man?

They are not 'in pari materia,' Euthydemus, said Ctesippus, and you had better take care,

for it is monstrous to suppose that your father is the father of all.

But he is, he replied.

What, of men only, said Ctesippus, or of horses and of all other animals?

Of all, he said.

And your mother, too, is the mother of all?

Yes, our mother too.

Yes; and your mother has a progeny of sea-urchins then?

Yes; and yours, he said.

And gudgeons and puppies and pigs are your brothers?

And yours too.

And your papa is a dog?

And so is yours, he said.

If you will answer my questions, said Dionysodorus, I will soon extract the same

admissions from you, Ctesippus. You say that you have a dog.

Yes, a villain of a one, said Ctesippus.

And he has puppies?

Yes, and they are very like himself.

And the dog is the father of them?

Yes, he said, I certainly saw him and the mother of the puppies come together.

And is he not yours?

To be sure he is.

Then he is a father, and he is yours; ergo, he is your father, and the puppies are your

brothers.

Let me ask you one little question more, said Dionysodorus, quickly interposing, in order

that Ctesippus might not get in his word: You beat this dog?

Ctesippus said, laughing, Indeed I do; and I only wish that I could beat you instead of

him.

Then you beat your father, he said.

I should have far more reason to beat yours, said Ctesippus; what could he have been

thinking of when he begat such wise sons? much good has this father of you and your

brethren the puppies got out of this wisdom of yours.

But neither he nor you, Ctesippus, have any need of much good.

And have you no need, Euthydemus? he said.

Neither I nor any other man; for tell me now, Ctesippus, if you think it good or evil for a

man who is sick to drink medicine when he wants it; or to go to war armed rather than

unarmed.

Good, I say. And yet I know that I am going to be caught in one of your charming

puzzles.

That, he replied, you will discover, if you answer; since you admit medicine to be good

for a man to drink, when wanted, must it not be good for him to drink as much as

possible; when he takes his medicine, a cartload of hellebore will not be too much for

him?

Ctesippus said: Quite so, Euthydemus, that is to say, if he who drinks is as big as the

statue of Delphi.

And seeing that in war to have arms is a good thing, he ought to have as many spears

and shields as possible?

Very true, said Ctesippus; and do you think, Euthydemus, that he ought to have one

shield only, and one spear?

I do.

And would you arm Geryon and Briareus in that way? Considering that you and your

companion fight in armour, I thought that you would have known better...Here

Euthydemus held his peace, but Dionysodorus returned to the previous answer of

Ctesippus and said:—

Do you not think that the possession of gold is a good thing?

Yes, said Ctesippus, and the more the better.

And to have money everywhere and always is a good?

Certainly, a great good, he said.

And you admit gold to be a good?

Certainly, he replied.

And ought not a man then to have gold everywhere and always, and as much as

possible in himself, and may he not be deemed the happiest of men who has three

talents of gold in his belly, and a talent in his pate, and a stater of gold in either eye?

Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; and the Scythians reckon those who have gold in their

own skulls to be the happiest and bravest of men (that is only another instance of your

manner of speaking about the dog and father), and what is still more extraordinary, they

drink out of their own skulls gilt, and see the inside of them, and hold their own head in

their hands.

And do the Scythians and others see that which has the quality of vision, or that which

has not? said Euthydemus.

That which has the quality of vision clearly.

And you also see that which has the quality of vision? he said. (Note: the ambiguity of

(Greek), 'things visible and able to see,' (Greek), 'the speaking of the silent,' the silent

denoting either the speaker or the subject of the speech, cannot be perfectly rendered

in English. Compare Aristot. Soph. Elenchi (Poste's translation):—

'Of ambiguous propositions the following are instances:—

'I hope that you the enemy may slay.

'Whom one knows, he knows. Either the person knowing or the person known is here

affirmed to know.

'What one sees, that one sees: one sees a pillar: ergo, that one pillar sees.

'What you ARE holding, that you are: you are holding a stone: ergo, a stone you are.

'Is a speaking of the silent possible? "The silent" denotes either the speaker are the

subject of speech.

'There are three kinds of ambiguity of term or proposition. The first is when there is an

equal linguistic propriety in several interpretations; the second when one is improper

but customary; the third when the ambiguity arises in the combination of elements that

are in themselves unambiguous, as in "knowing letters." "Knowing" and "letters" are

perhaps separately unambiguous, but in combination may imply either that the letters

are known, or that they themselves have knowledge. Such are the modes in which

propositions and terms may be ambiguous.'

Yes, I do.

Then do you see our garments?

Yes.

Then our garments have the quality of vision.

They can see to any extent, said Ctesippus.

What can they see?

Nothing; but you, my sweet man, may perhaps imagine that they do not see; and

certainly, Euthydemus, you do seem to me to have been caught napping when you were

not asleep, and that if it be possible to speak and say nothing—you are doing so.

And may there not be a silence of the speaker? said Dionysodorus.

Impossible, said Ctesippus.

Or a speaking of the silent?

That is still more impossible, he said.

But when you speak of stones, wood, iron bars, do you not speak of the silent?

Not when I pass a smithy; for then the iron bars make a tremendous noise and outcry if

they are touched: so that here your wisdom is strangely mistaken; please, however, to

tell me how you can be silent when speaking (I thought that Ctesippus was put upon his

mettle because Cleinias was present).

When you are silent, said Euthydemus, is there not a silence of all things?

Yes, he said.

But if speaking things are included in all things, then the speaking are silent.

What, said Ctesippus; then all things are not silent?

Certainly not, said Euthydemus.

Then, my good friend, do they all speak?

Yes; those which speak.

Nay, said Ctesippus, but the question which I ask is whether all things are silent or

speak?

Neither and both, said Dionysodorus, quickly interposing; I am sure that you will be

'non-plussed' at that answer.

Here Ctesippus, as his manner was, burst into a roar of laughter; he said, That brother of

yours, Euthydemus, has got into a dilemma; all is over with him. This delighted Cleinias,

whose laughter made Ctesippus ten times as uproarious; but I cannot help thinking that

the rogue must have picked up this answer from them; for there has been no wisdom

like theirs in our time. Why do you laugh, Cleinias, I said, at such solemn and beautiful

things?

Why, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, did you ever see a beautiful thing?

Yes, Dionysodorus, I replied, I have seen many.

Were they other than the beautiful, or the same as the beautiful?

Now I was in a great quandary at having to answer this question, and I thought that I

was rightly served for having opened my mouth at all: I said however, They are not the

same as absolute beauty, but they have beauty present with each of them.

And are you an ox because an ox is present with you, or are you Dionysodorus, because

Dionysodorus is present with you?

God forbid, I replied.

But how, he said, by reason of one thing being present with another, will one thing be

another?

Is that your difficulty? I said. For I was beginning to imitate their skill, on which my heart

was set.

Of course, he replied, I and all the world are in a difficulty about the non-existent.

What do you mean, Dionysodorus? I said. Is not the honourable honourable and the

base base?

That, he said, is as I please.

And do you please?

Yes, he said.

And you will admit that the same is the same, and the other other; for surely the other is

not the same; I should imagine that even a child will hardly deny the other to be other.

But I think, Dionysodorus, that you must have intentionally missed the last question; for

in general you and your brother seem to me to be good workmen in your own

department, and to do the dialectician's business excellently well.

What, said he, is the business of a good workman? tell me, in the first place, whose

business is hammering?

The smith's.

And whose the making of pots?

The potter's.

And who has to kill and skin and mince and boil and roast?

The cook, I said.

And if a man does his business he does rightly?

Certainly.

And the business of the cook is to cut up and skin; you have admitted that?

Yes, I have admitted that, but you must not be too hard upon me.

Then if some one were to kill, mince, boil, roast the cook, he would do his business, and

if he were to hammer the smith, and make a pot of the potter, he would do their

business.

Poseidon, I said, this is the crown of wisdom; can I ever hope to have such wisdom of my

own?

And would you be able, Socrates, to recognize this wisdom when it has become your

own?

Certainly, I said, if you will allow me.

What, he said, do you think that you know what is your own?

Yes, I do, subject to your correction; for you are the bottom, and Euthydemus is the top,

of all my wisdom.

Is not that which you would deem your own, he said, that which you have in your own

power, and which you are able to use as you would desire, for example, an ox or a

sheep—would you not think that which you could sell and give and sacrifice to any god

whom you pleased, to be your own, and that which you could not give or sell or sacrifice

you would think not to be in your own power?

Yes, I said (for I was certain that something good would come out of the questions,

which I was impatient to hear); yes, such things, and such things only are mine.

Yes, he said, and you would mean by animals living beings?

Yes, I said.

You agree then, that those animals only are yours with which you have the power to do

all these things which I was just naming?

I agree.

Then, after a pause, in which he seemed to be lost in the contemplation of something

great, he said: Tell me, Socrates, have you an ancestral Zeus? Here, anticipating the final

move, like a person caught in a net, who gives a desperate twist that he may get away, I

said: No, Dionysodorus, I have not.

What a miserable man you must be then, he said; you are not an Athenian at all if you

have no ancestral gods or temples, or any other mark of gentility.

Nay, Dionysodorus, I said, do not be rough; good words, if you please; in the way of

religion I have altars and temples, domestic and ancestral, and all that other Athenians

have.

And have not other Athenians, he said, an ancestral Zeus?

That name, I said, is not to be found among the Ionians, whether colonists or citizens of

Athens; an ancestral Apollo there is, who is the father of Ion, and a family Zeus, and a

Zeus guardian of the phratry, and an Athene guardian of the phratry. But the name of

ancestral Zeus is unknown to us.

No matter, said Dionysodorus, for you admit that you have Apollo, Zeus, and Athene.

Certainly, I said.

And they are your gods, he said.

Yes, I said, my lords and ancestors.

At any rate they are yours, he said, did you not admit that?

I did, I said; what is going to happen to me?

And are not these gods animals? for you admit that all things which have life are

animals; and have not these gods life?

They have life, I said.

Then are they not animals?

They are animals, I said.

And you admitted that of animals those are yours which you could give away or sell or

offer in sacrifice, as you pleased?

I did admit that, Euthydemus, and I have no way of escape.

Well then, said he, if you admit that Zeus and the other gods are yours, can you sell

them or give them away or do what you will with them, as you would with other

animals?

At this I was quite struck dumb, Crito, and lay prostrate. Ctesippus came to the rescue.

Bravo, Heracles, brave words, said he.

Bravo Heracles, or is Heracles a Bravo? said Dionysodorus.

Poseidon, said Ctesippus, what awful distinctions. I will have no more of them; the pair

are invincible.

Then, my dear Crito, there was universal applause of the speakers and their words, and

what with laughing and clapping of hands and rejoicings the two men were quite

overpowered; for hitherto their partisans only had cheered at each successive hit, but

now the whole company shouted with delight until the columns of the Lyceum returned

the sound, seeming to sympathize in their joy. To such a pitch was I affected myself, that

I made a speech, in which I acknowledged that I had never seen the like of their wisdom;

I was their devoted servant, and fell to praising and admiring of them. What marvellous

dexterity of wit, I said, enabled you to acquire this great perfection in such a short time?

There is much, indeed, to admire in your words, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, but

there is nothing that I admire more than your magnanimous disregard of any opinion—

whether of the many, or of the grave and reverend seigniors—you regard only those

who are like yourselves. And I do verily believe that there are few who are like you, and

who would approve of such arguments; the majority of mankind are so ignorant of their

value, that they would be more ashamed of employing them in the refutation of others

than of being refuted by them. I must further express my approval of your kind and

public-spirited denial of all differences, whether of good and evil, white or black, or any

other; the result of which is that, as you say, every mouth is sewn up, not excepting your

own, which graciously follows the example of others; and thus all ground of offence is

taken away. But what appears to me to be more than all is, that this art and invention of

yours has been so admirably contrived by you, that in a very short time it can be

imparted to any one. I observed that Ctesippus learned to imitate you in no time. Now

this quickness of attainment is an excellent thing; but at the same time I would advise

you not to have any more public entertainments; there is a danger that men may

undervalue an art which they have so easy an opportunity of acquiring; the exhibition

would be best of all, if the discussion were confined to your two selves; but if there must

be an audience, let him only be present who is willing to pay a handsome fee;—you

should be careful of this;—and if you are wise, you will also bid your disciples discourse

with no man but you and themselves. For only what is rare is valuable; and 'water,'

which, as Pindar says, is the 'best of all things,' is also the cheapest. And now I have only

to request that you will receive Cleinias and me among your pupils.

Such was the discussion, Crito; and after a few more words had passed between us we

went away. I hope that you will come to them with me, since they say that they are able

to teach any one who will give them money; no age or want of capacity is an

impediment. And I must repeat one thing which they said, for your especial benefit,—

that the learning of their art did not at all interfere with the business of money-making.

CRITO: Truly, Socrates, though I am curious and ready to learn, yet I fear that I am not

like-minded with Euthydemus, but one of the other sort, who, as you were saying, would

rather be refuted by such arguments than use them in refutation of others. And though I

may appear ridiculous in venturing to advise you, I think that you may as well hear what

was said to me by a man of very considerable pretensions—he was a professor of legal

oratory— who came away from you while I was walking up and down. 'Crito,' said he to

me, 'are you giving no attention to these wise men?' 'No, indeed,' I said to him; 'I could

not get within hearing of them—there was such a crowd.' 'You would have heard

something worth hearing if you had.' 'What was that?' I said. 'You would have heard the

greatest masters of the art of rhetoric discoursing.' 'And what did you think of them?' I

said. 'What did I think of them?' he said:—'theirs was the sort of discourse which

anybody might hear from men who were playing the fool, and making much ado about

nothing.' That was the expression which he used. 'Surely,' I said, 'philosophy is a

charming thing.' 'Charming!' he said; 'what simplicity! philosophy is nought; and I think

that if you had been present you would have been ashamed of your friend—his conduct

was so very strange in placing himself at the mercy of men who care not what they say,

and fasten upon every word. And these, as I was telling you, are supposed to be the

most eminent professors of their time. But the truth is, Crito, that the study itself and the

men themselves are utterly mean and ridiculous.' Now censure of the pursuit, Socrates,

whether coming from him or from others, appears to me to be undeserved; but as to

the impropriety of holding a public discussion with such men, there, I confess that, in my

opinion, he was in the right.

SOCRATES: O Crito, they are marvellous men; but what was I going to say? First of all let

me know;—What manner of man was he who came up to you and censured philosophy;

was he an orator who himself practises in the courts, or an instructor of orators, who

makes the speeches with which they do battle?

CRITO: He was certainly not an orator, and I doubt whether he had ever been into court;

but they say that he knows the business, and is a clever man, and composes wonderful

speeches.

SOCRATES: Now I understand, Crito; he is one of an amphibious class, whom I was on

the point of mentioning—one of those whom Prodicus describes as on the borderground

between philosophers and statesmen—they think that they are the wisest of all

men, and that they are generally esteemed the wisest; nothing but the rivalry of the

philosophers stands in their way; and they are of the opinion that if they can prove the

philosophers to be good for nothing, no one will dispute their title to the palm of

wisdom, for that they are themselves really the wisest, although they are apt to be

mauled by Euthydemus and his friends, when they get hold of them in conversation.

This opinion which they entertain of their own wisdom is very natural; for they have a

certain amount of philosophy, and a certain amount of political wisdom; there is reason

in what they say, for they argue that they have just enough of both, and so they keep

out of the way of all risks and conflicts and reap the fruits of their wisdom.

CRITO: What do you say of them, Socrates? There is certainly something specious in that

notion of theirs.

SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, there is more speciousness than truth; they cannot be made to

understand the nature of intermediates. For all persons or things, which are

intermediate between two other things, and participate in both of them—if one of these

two things is good and the other evil, are better than the one and worse than the other;

but if they are in a mean between two good things which do not tend to the same end,

they fall short of either of their component elements in the attainment of their ends.

Only in the case when the two component elements which do not tend to the same end

are evil is the participant better than either. Now, if philosophy and political action are

both good, but tend to different ends, and they participate in both, and are in a mean

between them, then they are talking nonsense, for they are worse than either; or, if the

one be good and the other evil, they are better than the one and worse than the other;

only on the supposition that they are both evil could there be any truth in what they say.

I do not think that they will admit that their two pursuits are either wholly or partly evil;

but the truth is, that these philosopher- politicians who aim at both fall short of both in

the attainment of their respective ends, and are really third, although they would like to

stand first. There is no need, however, to be angry at this ambition of theirs— which

may be forgiven; for every man ought to be loved who says and manfully pursues and

works out anything which is at all like wisdom: at the same time we shall do well to see

them as they really are.

CRITO: I have often told you, Socrates, that I am in a constant difficulty about my two

sons. What am I to do with them? There is no hurry about the younger one, who is only

a child; but the other, Critobulus, is getting on, and needs some one who will improve

him. I cannot help thinking, when I hear you talk, that there is a sort of madness in many

of our anxieties about our children:—in the first place, about marrying a wife of good

family to be the mother of them, and then about heaping up money for them— and yet

taking no care about their education. But then again, when I contemplate any of those

who pretend to educate others, I am amazed. To me, if I am to confess the truth, they all

seem to be such outrageous beings: so that I do not know how I can advise the youth to

study philosophy.

SOCRATES: Dear Crito, do you not know that in every profession the inferior sort are

numerous and good for nothing, and the good are few and beyond all price: for

example, are not gymnastic and rhetoric and money- making and the art of the general,

noble arts?

CRITO: Certainly they are, in my judgment.

SOCRATES: Well, and do you not see that in each of these arts the many are ridiculous

performers?

CRITO: Yes, indeed, that is very true.

SOCRATES: And will you on this account shun all these pursuits yourself and refuse to

allow them to your son?

CRITO: That would not be reasonable, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Do you then be reasonable, Crito, and do not mind whether the teachers of

philosophy are good or bad, but think only of philosophy herself. Try and examine her

well and truly, and if she be evil seek to turn away all men from her, and not your sons

only; but if she be what I believe that she is, then follow her and serve her, you and your

house, as the saying is, and be of good cheer.

THE END

CRATYLUS

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Hermogenes, Cratylus.

HERMOGENES: Suppose that we make Socrates a party to the argument?

CRATYLUS: If you please.

HERMOGENES: I should explain to you, Socrates, that our friend Cratylus has been

arguing about names; he says that they are natural and not conventional; not a portion

of the human voice which men agree to use; but that there is a truth or correctness in

them, which is the same for Hellenes as for barbarians. Whereupon I ask him, whether

his own name of Cratylus is a true name or not, and he answers 'Yes.' And Socrates?

'Yes.' Then every man's name, as I tell him, is that which he is called. To this he replies—

'If all the world were to call you Hermogenes, that would not be your name.' And when I

am anxious to have a further explanation he is ironical and mysterious, and seems to

imply that he has a notion of his own about the matter, if he would only tell, and could

entirely convince me, if he chose to be intelligible. Tell me, Socrates, what this oracle

means; or rather tell me, if you will be so good, what is your own view of the truth or

correctness of names, which I would far sooner hear.

SOCRATES: Son of Hipponicus, there is an ancient saying, that 'hard is the knowledge of

the good.' And the knowledge of names is a great part of knowledge. If I had not been

poor, I might have heard the fifty-drachma course of the great Prodicus, which is a

complete education in grammar and language—these are his own words—and then I

should have been at once able to answer your question about the correctness of names.

But, indeed, I have only heard the single-drachma course, and therefore, I do not know

the truth about such matters; I will, however, gladly assist you and Cratylus in the

investigation of them. When he declares that your name is not really Hermogenes, I

suspect that he is only making fun of you;—he means to say that you are no true son of

Hermes, because you are always looking after a fortune and never in luck. But, as I was

saying, there is a good deal of difficulty in this sort of knowledge, and therefore we had

better leave the question open until we have heard both sides.

HERMOGENES: I have often talked over this matter, both with Cratylus and others, and

cannot convince myself that there is any principle of correctness in names other than

convention and agreement; any name which you give, in my opinion, is the right one,

and if you change that and give another, the new name is as correct as the old—we

frequently change the names of our slaves, and the newly-imposed name is as good as

the old: for there is no name given to anything by nature; all is convention and habit of

the users;—such is my view. But if I am mistaken I shall be happy to hear and learn of

Cratylus, or of any one else.

SOCRATES: I dare say that you may be right, Hermogenes: let us see;—Your meaning is,

that the name of each thing is only that which anybody agrees to call it?

HERMOGENES: That is my notion.

SOCRATES: Whether the giver of the name be an individual or a city?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Well, now, let me take an instance;—suppose that I call a man a horse or a

horse a man, you mean to say that a man will be rightly called a horse by me

individually, and rightly called a man by the rest of the world; and a horse again would

be rightly called a man by me and a horse by the world:—that is your meaning?

HERMOGENES: He would, according to my view.

SOCRATES: But how about truth, then? you would acknowledge that there is in words a

true and a false?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And there are true and false propositions?

HERMOGENES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And a true proposition says that which is, and a false proposition says that

which is not?

HERMOGENES: Yes; what other answer is possible?

SOCRATES: Then in a proposition there is a true and false?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: But is a proposition true as a whole only, and are the parts untrue?

HERMOGENES: No; the parts are true as well as the whole.

SOCRATES: Would you say the large parts and not the smaller ones, or every part?

HERMOGENES: I should say that every part is true.

SOCRATES: Is a proposition resolvable into any part smaller than a name?

HERMOGENES: No; that is the smallest.

SOCRATES: Then the name is a part of the true proposition?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Yes, and a true part, as you say.

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And is not the part of a falsehood also a falsehood?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then, if propositions may be true and false, names may be true and false?

HERMOGENES: So we must infer.

SOCRATES: And the name of anything is that which any one affirms to be the name?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And will there be so many names of each thing as everybody says that there

are? and will they be true names at the time of uttering them?

HERMOGENES: Yes, Socrates, I can conceive no correctness of names other than this;

you give one name, and I another; and in different cities and countries there are

different names for the same things; Hellenes differ from barbarians in their use of

names, and the several Hellenic tribes from one another.

SOCRATES: But would you say, Hermogenes, that the things differ as the names differ?

and are they relative to individuals, as Protagoras tells us? For he says that man is the

measure of all things, and that things are to me as they appear to me, and that they are

to you as they appear to you. Do you agree with him, or would you say that things have

a permanent essence of their own?

HERMOGENES: There have been times, Socrates, when I have been driven in my

perplexity to take refuge with Protagoras; not that I agree with him at all.

SOCRATES: What! have you ever been driven to admit that there was no such thing as a

bad man?

HERMOGENES: No, indeed; but I have often had reason to think that there are very bad

men, and a good many of them.

SOCRATES: Well, and have you ever found any very good ones?

HERMOGENES: Not many.

SOCRATES: Still you have found them?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And would you hold that the very good were the very wise, and the very evil

very foolish? Would that be your view?

HERMOGENES: It would.

SOCRATES: But if Protagoras is right, and the truth is that things are as they appear to

any one, how can some of us be wise and some of us foolish?

HERMOGENES: Impossible.

SOCRATES: And if, on the other hand, wisdom and folly are really distinguishable, you

will allow, I think, that the assertion of Protagoras can hardly be correct. For if what

appears to each man is true to him, one man cannot in reality be wiser than another.

HERMOGENES: He cannot.

SOCRATES: Nor will you be disposed to say with Euthydemus, that all things equally

belong to all men at the same moment and always; for neither on his view can there be

some good and others bad, if virtue and vice are always equally to be attributed to all.

HERMOGENES: There cannot.

SOCRATES: But if neither is right, and things are not relative to individuals, and all things

do not equally belong to all at the same moment and always, they must be supposed to

have their own proper and permanent essence: they are not in relation to us, or

influenced by us, fluctuating according to our fancy, but they are independent, and

maintain to their own essence the relation prescribed by nature.

HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that you have said the truth.

SOCRATES: Does what I am saying apply only to the things themselves, or equally to the

actions which proceed from them? Are not actions also a class of being?

HERMOGENES: Yes, the actions are real as well as the things.

SOCRATES: Then the actions also are done according to their proper nature, and not

according to our opinion of them? In cutting, for example, we do not cut as we please,

and with any chance instrument; but we cut with the proper instrument only, and

according to the natural process of cutting; and the natural process is right and will

succeed, but any other will fail and be of no use at all.

HERMOGENES: I should say that the natural way is the right way.

SOCRATES: Again, in burning, not every way is the right way; but the right way is the

natural way, and the right instrument the natural instrument.

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: And this holds good of all actions?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And speech is a kind of action?

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: And will a man speak correctly who speaks as he pleases? Will not the

successful speaker rather be he who speaks in the natural way of speaking, and as

things ought to be spoken, and with the natural instrument? Any other mode of

speaking will result in error and failure.

HERMOGENES: I quite agree with you.

SOCRATES: And is not naming a part of speaking? for in giving names men speak.

HERMOGENES: That is true.

SOCRATES: And if speaking is a sort of action and has a relation to acts, is not naming

also a sort of action?

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: And we saw that actions were not relative to ourselves, but had a special

nature of their own?

HERMOGENES: Precisely.

SOCRATES: Then the argument would lead us to infer that names ought to be given

according to a natural process, and with a proper instrument, and not at our pleasure: in

this and no other way shall we name with success.

HERMOGENES: I agree.

SOCRATES: But again, that which has to be cut has to be cut with something?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And that which has to be woven or pierced has to be woven or pierced with

something?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And that which has to be named has to be named with something?

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: What is that with which we pierce?

HERMOGENES: An awl.

SOCRATES: And with which we weave?

HERMOGENES: A shuttle.

SOCRATES: And with which we name?

HERMOGENES: A name.

SOCRATES: Very good: then a name is an instrument?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Suppose that I ask, 'What sort of instrument is a shuttle?' And you answer, 'A

weaving instrument.'

HERMOGENES: Well.

SOCRATES: And I ask again, 'What do we do when we weave?'—The answer is, that we

separate or disengage the warp from the woof.

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And may not a similar description be given of an awl, and of instruments in

general?

HERMOGENES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And now suppose that I ask a similar question about names: will you answer

me? Regarding the name as an instrument, what do we do when we name?

HERMOGENES: I cannot say.

SOCRATES: Do we not give information to one another, and distinguish things

according to their natures?

HERMOGENES: Certainly we do.

SOCRATES: Then a name is an instrument of teaching and of distinguishing natures, as

the shuttle is of distinguishing the threads of the web.

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the shuttle is the instrument of the weaver?

HERMOGENES: Assuredly.

SOCRATES: Then the weaver will use the shuttle well—and well means like a weaver?

and the teacher will use the name well—and well means like a teacher?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And when the weaver uses the shuttle, whose work will he be using well?

HERMOGENES: That of the carpenter.

SOCRATES: And is every man a carpenter, or the skilled only?

HERMOGENES: Only the skilled.

SOCRATES: And when the piercer uses the awl, whose work will he be using well?

HERMOGENES: That of the smith.

SOCRATES: And is every man a smith, or only the skilled?

HERMOGENES: The skilled only.

SOCRATES: And when the teacher uses the name, whose work will he be using?

HERMOGENES: There again I am puzzled.

SOCRATES: Cannot you at least say who gives us the names which we use?

HERMOGENES: Indeed I cannot.

SOCRATES: Does not the law seem to you to give us them?

HERMOGENES: Yes, I suppose so.

SOCRATES: Then the teacher, when he gives us a name, uses the work of the legislator?

HERMOGENES: I agree.

SOCRATES: And is every man a legislator, or the skilled only?

HERMOGENES: The skilled only.

SOCRATES: Then, Hermogenes, not every man is able to give a name, but only a maker

of names; and this is the legislator, who of all skilled artisans in the world is the rarest.

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: And how does the legislator make names? and to what does he look?

Consider this in the light of the previous instances: to what does the carpenter look in

making the shuttle? Does he not look to that which is naturally fitted to act as a shuttle?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And suppose the shuttle to be broken in making, will he make another,

looking to the broken one? or will he look to the form according to which he made the

other?

HERMOGENES: To the latter, I should imagine.

SOCRATES: Might not that be justly called the true or ideal shuttle?

HERMOGENES: I think so.

SOCRATES: And whatever shuttles are wanted, for the manufacture of garments, thin or

thick, of flaxen, woollen, or other material, ought all of them to have the true form of the

shuttle; and whatever is the shuttle best adapted to each kind of work, that ought to be

the form which the maker produces in each case.

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the same holds of other instruments: when a man has discovered the

instrument which is naturally adapted to each work, he must express this natural form,

and not others which he fancies, in the material, whatever it may be, which he employs;

for example, he ought to know how to put into iron the forms of awls adapted by nature

to their several uses?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And how to put into wood forms of shuttles adapted by nature to their

uses?

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: For the several forms of shuttles naturally answer to the several kinds of

webs; and this is true of instruments in general.

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then, as to names: ought not our legislator also to know how to put the true

natural name of each thing into sounds and syllables, and to make and give all names

with a view to the ideal name, if he is to be a namer in any true sense? And we must

remember that different legislators will not use the same syllables. For neither does

every smith, although he may be making the same instrument for the same purpose,

make them all of the same iron. The form must be the same, but the material may vary,

and still the instrument may be equally good of whatever iron made, whether in Hellas

or in a foreign country;—there is no difference.

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And the legislator, whether he be Hellene or barbarian, is not therefore to be

deemed by you a worse legislator, provided he gives the true and proper form of the

name in whatever syllables; this or that country makes no matter.

HERMOGENES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: But who then is to determine whether the proper form is given to the

shuttle, whatever sort of wood may be used? the carpenter who makes, or the weaver

who is to use them?

HERMOGENES: I should say, he who is to use them, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And who uses the work of the lyre-maker? Will not he be the man who

knows how to direct what is being done, and who will know also whether the work is

being well done or not?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And who is he?

HERMOGENES: The player of the lyre.

SOCRATES: And who will direct the shipwright?

HERMOGENES: The pilot.

SOCRATES: And who will be best able to direct the legislator in his work, and will know

whether the work is well done, in this or any other country? Will not the user be the

man?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And this is he who knows how to ask questions?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And how to answer them?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And him who knows how to ask and answer you would call a dialectician?

HERMOGENES: Yes; that would be his name.

SOCRATES: Then the work of the carpenter is to make a rudder, and the pilot has to

direct him, if the rudder is to be well made.

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: And the work of the legislator is to give names, and the dialectician must be

his director if the names are to be rightly given?

HERMOGENES: That is true.

SOCRATES: Then, Hermogenes, I should say that this giving of names can be no such

light matter as you fancy, or the work of light or chance persons; and Cratylus is right in

saying that things have names by nature, and that not every man is an artificer of

names, but he only who looks to the name which each thing by nature has, and is able

to express the true forms of things in letters and syllables.

HERMOGENES: I cannot answer you, Socrates; but I find a difficulty in changing my

opinion all in a moment, and I think that I should be more readily persuaded, if you

would show me what this is which you term the natural fitness of names.

SOCRATES: My good Hermogenes, I have none to show. Was I not telling you just now

(but you have forgotten), that I knew nothing, and proposing to share the enquiry with

you? But now that you and I have talked over the matter, a step has been gained; for we

have discovered that names have by nature a truth, and that not every man knows how

to give a thing a name.

HERMOGENES: Very good.

SOCRATES: And what is the nature of this truth or correctness of names? That, if you

care to know, is the next question.

HERMOGENES: Certainly, I care to know.

SOCRATES: Then reflect.

HERMOGENES: How shall I reflect?

SOCRATES: The true way is to have the assistance of those who know, and you must pay

them well both in money and in thanks; these are the Sophists, of whom your brother,

Callias, has—rather dearly—bought the reputation of wisdom. But you have not yet

come into your inheritance, and therefore you had better go to him, and beg and

entreat him to tell you what he has learnt from Protagoras about the fitness of names.

HERMOGENES: But how inconsistent should I be, if, whilst repudiating Protagoras and

his truth ('Truth' was the title of the book of Protagoras; compare Theaet.), I were to

attach any value to what he and his book affirm!

SOCRATES: Then if you despise him, you must learn of Homer and the poets.

HERMOGENES: And where does Homer say anything about names, and what does he

say?

SOCRATES: He often speaks of them; notably and nobly in the places where he

distinguishes the different names which Gods and men give to the same things. Does he

not in these passages make a remarkable statement about the correctness of names?

For the Gods must clearly be supposed to call things by their right and natural names;

do you not think so?

HERMOGENES: Why, of course they call them rightly, if they call them at all. But to what

are you referring?

SOCRATES: Do you not know what he says about the river in Troy who had a single

combat with Hephaestus?

'Whom,' as he says, 'the Gods call Xanthus, and men call Scamander.'

HERMOGENES: I remember.

SOCRATES: Well, and about this river—to know that he ought to be called Xanthus and

not Scamander—is not that a solemn lesson? Or about the bird which, as he says,

'The Gods call Chalcis, and men Cymindis:'

to be taught how much more correct the name Chalcis is than the name Cymindis—do

you deem that a light matter? Or about Batieia and Myrina? (Compare Il. 'The hill which

men call Batieia and the immortals the tomb of the sportive Myrina.') And there are

many other observations of the same kind in Homer and other poets. Now, I think that

this is beyond the understanding of you and me; but the names of Scamandrius and

Astyanax, which he affirms to have been the names of Hector's son, are more within the

range of human faculties, as I am disposed to think; and what the poet means by

correctness may be more readily apprehended in that instance: you will remember I dare

say the lines to which I refer? (Il.)

HERMOGENES: I do.

SOCRATES: Let me ask you, then, which did Homer think the more correct of the names

given to Hector's son—Astyanax or Scamandrius?

HERMOGENES: I do not know.

SOCRATES: How would you answer, if you were asked whether the wise or the unwise

are more likely to give correct names?

HERMOGENES: I should say the wise, of course.

SOCRATES: And are the men or the women of a city, taken as a class, the wiser?

HERMOGENES: I should say, the men.

SOCRATES: And Homer, as you know, says that the Trojan men called him Astyanax

(king of the city); but if the men called him Astyanax, the other name of Scamandrius

could only have been given to him by the women.

HERMOGENES: That may be inferred.

SOCRATES: And must not Homer have imagined the Trojans to be wiser than their

wives?

HERMOGENES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: Then he must have thought Astyanax to be a more correct name for the boy

than Scamandrius?

HERMOGENES: Clearly.

SOCRATES: And what is the reason of this? Let us consider:—does he not himself

suggest a very good reason, when he says,

'For he alone defended their city and long walls'?

This appears to be a good reason for calling the son of the saviour king of the city which

his father was saving, as Homer observes.

HERMOGENES: I see.

SOCRATES: Why, Hermogenes, I do not as yet see myself; and do you?

HERMOGENES: No, indeed; not I.

SOCRATES: But tell me, friend, did not Homer himself also give Hector his name?

HERMOGENES: What of that?

SOCRATES: The name appears to me to be very nearly the same as the name of

Astyanax—both are Hellenic; and a king (anax) and a holder (ektor) have nearly the

same meaning, and are both descriptive of a king; for a man is clearly the holder of that

of which he is king; he rules, and owns, and holds it. But, perhaps, you may think that I

am talking nonsense; and indeed I believe that I myself did not know what I meant when

I imagined that I had found some indication of the opinion of Homer about the

correctness of names.

HERMOGENES: I assure you that I think otherwise, and I believe you to be on the right

track.

SOCRATES: There is reason, I think, in calling the lion's whelp a lion, and the foal of a

horse a horse; I am speaking only of the ordinary course of nature, when an animal

produces after his kind, and not of extraordinary births;—if contrary to nature a horse

have a calf, then I should not call that a foal but a calf; nor do I call any inhuman birth a

man, but only a natural birth. And the same may be said of trees and other things. Do

you agree with me?

HERMOGENES: Yes, I agree.

SOCRATES: Very good. But you had better watch me and see that I do not play tricks

with you. For on the same principle the son of a king is to be called a king. And whether

the syllables of the name are the same or not the same, makes no difference, provided

the meaning is retained; nor does the addition or subtraction of a letter make any

difference so long as the essence of the thing remains in possession of the name and

appears in it.

HERMOGENES: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: A very simple matter. I may illustrate my meaning by the names of letters,

which you know are not the same as the letters themselves with the exception of the

four epsilon, upsilon, omicron, omega; the names of the rest, whether vowels or

consonants, are made up of other letters which we add to them; but so long as we

introduce the meaning, and there can be no mistake, the name of the letter is quite

correct. Take, for example, the letter beta—the addition of eta, tau, alpha, gives no

offence, and does not prevent the whole name from having the value which the

legislator intended—so well did he know how to give the letters names.

HERMOGENES: I believe you are right.

SOCRATES: And may not the same be said of a king? a king will often be the son of a

king, the good son or the noble son of a good or noble sire; and similarly the offspring

of every kind, in the regular course of nature, is like the parent, and therefore has the

same name. Yet the syllables may be disguised until they appear different to the

ignorant person, and he may not recognize them, although they are the same, just as

any one of us would not recognize the same drugs under different disguises of colour

and smell, although to the physician, who regards the power of them, they are the same,

and he is not put out by the addition; and in like manner the etymologist is not put out

by the addition or transposition or subtraction of a letter or two, or indeed by the

change of all the letters, for this need not interfere with the meaning. As was just now

said, the names of Hector and Astyanax have only one letter alike, which is tau, and yet

they have the same meaning. And how little in common with the letters of their names

has Archepolis (ruler of the city)—and yet the meaning is the same. And there are many

other names which just mean 'king.' Again, there are several names for a general, as, for

example, Agis (leader) and Polemarchus (chief in war) and Eupolemus (good warrior);

and others which denote a physician, as Iatrocles (famous healer) and Acesimbrotus

(curer of mortals); and there are many others which might be cited, differing in their

syllables and letters, but having the same meaning. Would you not say so?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: The same names, then, ought to be assigned to those who follow in the

course of nature?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And what of those who follow out of the course of nature, and are

prodigies? for example, when a good and religious man has an irreligious son, he ought

to bear the name not of his father, but of the class to which he belongs, just as in the

case which was before supposed of a horse foaling a calf.

HERMOGENES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: Then the irreligious son of a religious father should be called irreligious?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: He should not be called Theophilus (beloved of God) or Mnesitheus (mindful

of God), or any of these names: if names are correctly given, his should have an opposite

meaning.

HERMOGENES: Certainly, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Again, Hermogenes, there is Orestes (the man of the mountains) who

appears to be rightly called; whether chance gave the name, or perhaps some poet who

meant to express the brutality and fierceness and mountain wildness of his hero's

nature.

HERMOGENES: That is very likely, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And his father's name is also according to nature.

HERMOGENES: Clearly.

SOCRATES: Yes, for as his name, so also is his nature; Agamemnon (admirable for

remaining) is one who is patient and persevering in the accomplishment of his resolves,

and by his virtue crowns them; and his continuance at Troy with all the vast army is a

proof of that admirable endurance in him which is signified by the name Agamemnon. I

also think that Atreus is rightly called; for his murder of Chrysippus and his exceeding

cruelty to Thyestes are damaging and destructive to his reputation—the name is a little

altered and disguised so as not to be intelligible to every one, but to the etymologist

there is no difficulty in seeing the meaning, for whether you think of him as ateires the

stubborn, or as atrestos the fearless, or as ateros the destructive one, the name is

perfectly correct in every point of view. And I think that Pelops is also named

appropriately; for, as the name implies, he is rightly called Pelops who sees what is near

only (o ta pelas oron).

HERMOGENES: How so?

SOCRATES: Because, according to the tradition, he had no forethought or foresight of all

the evil which the murder of Myrtilus would entail upon his whole race in remote ages;

he saw only what was at hand and immediate, —or in other words, pelas (near), in his

eagerness to win Hippodamia by all means for his bride. Every one would agree that the

name of Tantalus is rightly given and in accordance with nature, if the traditions about

him are true.

HERMOGENES: And what are the traditions?

SOCRATES: Many terrible misfortunes are said to have happened to him in his life—last

of all, came the utter ruin of his country; and after his death he had the stone suspended

(talanteia) over his head in the world below—all this agrees wonderfully well with his

name. You might imagine that some person who wanted to call him Talantatos (the

most weighted down by misfortune), disguised the name by altering it into Tantalus;

and into this form, by some accident of tradition, it has actually been transmuted. The

name of Zeus, who is his alleged father, has also an excellent meaning, although hard to

be understood, because really like a sentence, which is divided into two parts, for some

call him Zena, and use the one half, and others who use the other half call him Dia; the

two together signify the nature of the God, and the business of a name, as we were

saying, is to express the nature. For there is none who is more the author of life to us

and to all, than the lord and king of all. Wherefore we are right in calling him Zena and

Dia, which are one name, although divided, meaning the God through whom all

creatures always have life (di on zen aei pasi tois zosin uparchei). There is an irreverence,

at first sight, in calling him son of Cronos (who is a proverb for stupidity), and we might

rather expect Zeus to be the child of a mighty intellect. Which is the fact; for this is the

meaning of his father's name: Kronos quasi Koros (Choreo, to sweep), not in the sense

of a youth, but signifying to chatharon chai acheraton tou nou, the pure and garnished

mind (sc. apo tou chorein). He, as we are informed by tradition, was begotten of Uranus,

rightly so called (apo tou oran ta ano) from looking upwards; which, as philosophers tell

us, is the way to have a pure mind, and the name Uranus is therefore correct. If I could

remember the genealogy of Hesiod, I would have gone on and tried more conclusions

of the same sort on the remoter ancestors of the Gods,—then I might have seen

whether this wisdom, which has come to me all in an instant, I know not whence, will or

will not hold good to the end.

HERMOGENES: You seem to me, Socrates, to be quite like a prophet newly inspired, and

to be uttering oracles.

SOCRATES: Yes, Hermogenes, and I believe that I caught the inspiration from the great

Euthyphro of the Prospaltian deme, who gave me a long lecture which commenced at

dawn: he talked and I listened, and his wisdom and enchanting ravishment has not only

filled my ears but taken possession of my soul,and to-day I shall let his superhuman

power work and finish the investigation of names—that will be the way; but to-morrow,

if you are so disposed, we will conjure him away, and make a purgation of him, if we can

only find some priest or sophist who is skilled in purifications of this sort.

HERMOGENES: With all my heart; for am very curious to hear the rest of the enquiry

about names.

SOCRATES: Then let us proceed; and where would you have us begin, now that we have

got a sort of outline of the enquiry? Are there any names which witness of themselves

that they are not given arbitrarily, but have a natural fitness? The names of heroes and

of men in general are apt to be deceptive because they are often called after ancestors

with whose names, as we were saying, they may have no business; or they are the

expression of a wish like Eutychides (the son of good fortune), or Sosias (the Saviour), or

Theophilus (the beloved of God), and others. But I think that we had better leave these,

for there will be more chance of finding correctness in the names of immutable

essences;—there ought to have been more care taken about them when they were

named, and perhaps there may have been some more than human power at work

occasionally in giving them names.

HERMOGENES: I think so, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Ought we not to begin with the consideration of the Gods, and show that

they are rightly named Gods?

HERMOGENES: Yes, that will be well.

SOCRATES: My notion would be something of this sort:—I suspect that the sun, moon,

earth, stars, and heaven, which are still the Gods of many barbarians, were the only Gods

known to the aboriginal Hellenes. Seeing that they were always moving and running,

from their running nature they were called Gods or runners (Theous, Theontas); and

when men became acquainted with the other Gods, they proceeded to apply the same

name to them all. Do you think that likely?

HERMOGENES: I think it very likely indeed.

SOCRATES: What shall follow the Gods?

HERMOGENES: Must not demons and heroes and men come next?

SOCRATES: Demons! And what do you consider to be the meaning of this word? Tell me

if my view is right.

HERMOGENES: Let me hear.

SOCRATES: You know how Hesiod uses the word?

HERMOGENES: I do not.

SOCRATES: Do you not remember that he speaks of a golden race of men who came

first?

HERMOGENES: Yes, I do.

SOCRATES: He says of them—

'But now that fate has closed over this race They are holy demons upon the earth,

Beneficent, averters of ills, guardians of mortal men.' (Hesiod, Works and Days.)

HERMOGENES: What is the inference?

SOCRATES: What is the inference! Why, I suppose that he means by the golden men, not

men literally made of gold, but good and noble; and I am convinced of this, because he

further says that we are the iron race.

HERMOGENES: That is true.

SOCRATES: And do you not suppose that good men of our own day would by him be

said to be of golden race?

HERMOGENES: Very likely.

SOCRATES: And are not the good wise?

HERMOGENES: Yes, they are wise.

SOCRATES: And therefore I have the most entire conviction that he called them demons,

because they were daemones (knowing or wise), and in our older Attic dialect the word

itself occurs. Now he and other poets say truly, that when a good man dies he has

honour and a mighty portion among the dead, and becomes a demon; which is a name

given to him signifying wisdom. And I say too, that every wise man who happens to be a

good man is more than human (daimonion) both in life and death, and is rightly called a

demon.

HERMOGENES: Then I rather think that I am of one mind with you; but what is the

meaning of the word 'hero'? (Eros with an eta, in the old writing eros with an epsilon.)

SOCRATES: I think that there is no difficulty in explaining, for the name is not much

altered, and signifies that they were born of love.

HERMOGENES: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: Do you not know that the heroes are demigods?

HERMOGENES: What then?

SOCRATES: All of them sprang either from the love of a God for a mortal woman, or of a

mortal man for a Goddess; think of the word in the old Attic, and you will see better that

the name heros is only a slight alteration of Eros, from whom the heroes sprang: either

this is the meaning, or, if not this, then they must have been skilful as rhetoricians and

dialecticians, and able to put the question (erotan), for eirein is equivalent to legein. And

therefore, as I was saying, in the Attic dialect the heroes turn out to be rhetoricians and

questioners. All this is easy enough; the noble breed of heroes are a tribe of sophists

and rhetors. But can you tell me why men are called anthropoi?—that is more difficult.

HERMOGENES: No, I cannot; and I would not try even if I could, because I think that you

are the more likely to succeed.

SOCRATES: That is to say, you trust to the inspiration of Euthyphro.

HERMOGENES: Of course.

SOCRATES: Your faith is not vain; for at this very moment a new and ingenious thought

strikes me, and, if I am not careful, before to-morrow's dawn I shall be wiser than I

ought to be. Now, attend to me; and first, remember that we often put in and pull out

letters in words, and give names as we please and change the accents. Take, for

example, the word Dii Philos; in order to convert this from a sentence into a noun, we

omit one of the iotas and sound the middle syllable grave instead of acute; as, on the

other hand, letters are sometimes inserted in words instead of being omitted, and the

acute takes the place of the grave.

HERMOGENES: That is true.

SOCRATES: The name anthropos, which was once a sentence, and is now a noun,

appears to be a case just of this sort, for one letter, which is the alpha, has been omitted,

and the acute on the last syllable has been changed to a grave.

HERMOGENES: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: I mean to say that the word 'man' implies that other animals never examine,

or consider, or look up at what they see, but that man not only sees (opope) but

considers and looks up at that which he sees, and hence he alone of all animals is rightly

anthropos, meaning anathron a opopen.

HERMOGENES: May I ask you to examine another word about which I am curious?

SOCRATES: Certainly.

HERMOGENES: I will take that which appears to me to follow next in order. You know

the distinction of soul and body?

SOCRATES: Of course.

HERMOGENES: Let us endeavour to analyze them like the previous words.

SOCRATES: You want me first of all to examine the natural fitness of the word psuche

(soul), and then of the word soma (body)?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: If I am to say what occurs to me at the moment, I should imagine that those

who first used the name psuche meant to express that the soul when in the body is the

source of life, and gives the power of breath and revival (anapsuchon), and when this

reviving power fails then the body perishes and dies, and this, if I am not mistaken, they

called psyche. But please stay a moment; I fancy that I can discover something which will

be more acceptable to the disciples of Euthyphro, for I am afraid that they will scorn this

explanation. What do you say to another?

HERMOGENES: Let me hear.

SOCRATES: What is that which holds and carries and gives life and motion to the entire

nature of the body? What else but the soul?

HERMOGENES: Just that.

SOCRATES: And do you not believe with Anaxagoras, that mind or soul is the ordering

and containing principle of all things?

HERMOGENES: Yes; I do.

SOCRATES: Then you may well call that power phuseche which carries and holds nature

(e phusin okei, kai ekei), and this may be refined away into psuche.

HERMOGENES: Certainly; and this derivation is, I think, more scientific than the other.

SOCRATES: It is so; but I cannot help laughing, if I am to suppose that this was the true

meaning of the name.

HERMOGENES: But what shall we say of the next word?

SOCRATES: You mean soma (the body).

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: That may be variously interpreted; and yet more variously if a little

permutation is allowed. For some say that the body is the grave (sema) of the soul which

may be thought to be buried in our present life; or again the index of the soul, because

the soul gives indications to (semainei) the body; probably the Orphic poets were the

inventors of the name, and they were under the impression that the soul is suffering the

punishment of sin, and that the body is an enclosure or prison in which the soul is

incarcerated, kept safe (soma, sozetai), as the name soma implies, until the penalty is

paid; according to this view, not even a letter of the word need be changed.

HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that we have said enough of this class of words. But

have we any more explanations of the names of the Gods, like that which you were

giving of Zeus? I should like to know whether any similar principle of correctness is to be

applied to them.

SOCRATES: Yes, indeed, Hermogenes; and there is one excellent principle which, as men

of sense, we must acknowledge,—that of the Gods we know nothing, either of their

natures or of the names which they give themselves; but we are sure that the names by

which they call themselves, whatever they may be, are true. And this is the best of all

principles; and the next best is to say, as in prayers, that we will call them by any sort or

kind of names or patronymics which they like, because we do not know of any other.

That also, I think, is a very good custom, and one which I should much wish to observe.

Let us, then, if you please, in the first place announce to them that we are not enquiring

about them; we do not presume that we are able to do so; but we are enquiring about

the meaning of men in giving them these names,—in this there can be small blame.

HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that you are quite right, and I would like to do as you

say.

SOCRATES: Shall we begin, then, with Hestia, according to custom?

HERMOGENES: Yes, that will be very proper.

SOCRATES: What may we suppose him to have meant who gave the name Hestia?

HERMOGENES: That is another and certainly a most difficult question.

SOCRATES: My dear Hermogenes, the first imposers of names must surely have been

considerable persons; they were philosophers, and had a good deal to say.

HERMOGENES: Well, and what of them?

SOCRATES: They are the men to whom I should attribute the imposition of names. Even

in foreign names, if you analyze them, a meaning is still discernible. For example, that

which we term ousia is by some called esia, and by others again osia. Now that the

essence of things should be called estia, which is akin to the first of these (esia = estia),

is rational enough. And there is reason in the Athenians calling that estia which

participates in ousia. For in ancient times we too seem to have said esia for ousia, and

this you may note to have been the idea of those who appointed that sacrifices should

be first offered to estia, which was natural enough if they meant that estia was the

essence of things. Those again who read osia seem to have inclined to the opinion of

Heracleitus, that all things flow and nothing stands; with them the pushing principle

(othoun) is the cause and ruling power of all things, and is therefore rightly called osia.

Enough of this, which is all that we who know nothing can affirm. Next in order after

Hestia we ought to consider Rhea and Cronos, although the name of Cronos has been

already discussed. But I dare say that I am talking great nonsense.

HERMOGENES: Why, Socrates?

SOCRATES: My good friend, I have discovered a hive of wisdom.

HERMOGENES: Of what nature?

SOCRATES: Well, rather ridiculous, and yet plausible.

HERMOGENES: How plausible?

SOCRATES: I fancy to myself Heracleitus repeating wise traditions of antiquity as old as

the days of Cronos and Rhea, and of which Homer also spoke.

HERMOGENES: How do you mean?

SOCRATES: Heracleitus is supposed to say that all things are in motion and nothing at

rest; he compares them to the stream of a river, and says that you cannot go into the

same water twice.

HERMOGENES: That is true.

SOCRATES: Well, then, how can we avoid inferring that he who gave the names of

Cronos and Rhea to the ancestors of the Gods, agreed pretty much in the doctrine of

Heracleitus? Is the giving of the names of streams to both of them purely accidental?

Compare the line in which Homer, and, as I believe, Hesiod also, tells of

'Ocean, the origin of Gods, and mother Tethys (Il.—the line is not found in the extant

works of Hesiod.).'

And again, Orpheus says, that

'The fair river of Ocean was the first to marry, and he espoused his sister Tethys, who

was his mother's daughter.'

You see that this is a remarkable coincidence, and all in the direction of Heracleitus.

HERMOGENES: I think that there is something in what you say, Socrates; but I do not

understand the meaning of the name Tethys.

SOCRATES: Well, that is almost self-explained, being only the name of a spring, a little

disguised; for that which is strained and filtered (diattomenon, ethoumenon) may be

likened to a spring, and the name Tethys is made up of these two words.

HERMOGENES: The idea is ingenious, Socrates.

SOCRATES: To be sure. But what comes next?—of Zeus we have spoken.

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then let us next take his two brothers, Poseidon and Pluto, whether the

latter is called by that or by his other name.

HERMOGENES: By all means.

SOCRATES: Poseidon is Posidesmos, the chain of the feet; the original inventor of the

name had been stopped by the watery element in his walks, and not allowed to go on,

and therefore he called the ruler of this element Poseidon; the epsilon was probably

inserted as an ornament. Yet, perhaps, not so; but the name may have been originally

written with a double lamda and not with a sigma, meaning that the God knew many

things (Polla eidos). And perhaps also he being the shaker of the earth, has been named

from shaking (seiein), and then pi and delta have been added. Pluto gives wealth

(Ploutos), and his name means the giver of wealth, which comes out of the earth

beneath. People in general appear to imagine that the term Hades is connected with the

invisible (aeides) and so they are led by their fears to call the God Pluto instead.

HERMOGENES: And what is the true derivation?

SOCRATES: In spite of the mistakes which are made about the power of this deity, and

the foolish fears which people have of him, such as the fear of always being with him

after death, and of the soul denuded of the body going to him (compare Rep.), my

belief is that all is quite consistent, and that the office and name of the God really

correspond.

HERMOGENES: Why, how is that?

SOCRATES: I will tell you my own opinion; but first, I should like to ask you which chain

does any animal feel to be the stronger? and which confines him more to the same

spot,—desire or necessity?

HERMOGENES: Desire, Socrates, is stronger far.

SOCRATES: And do you not think that many a one would escape from Hades, if he did

not bind those who depart to him by the strongest of chains?

HERMOGENES: Assuredly they would.

SOCRATES: And if by the greatest of chains, then by some desire, as I should certainly

infer, and not by necessity?

HERMOGENES: That is clear.

SOCRATES: And there are many desires?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And therefore by the greatest desire, if the chain is to be the greatest?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And is any desire stronger than the thought that you will be made better by

associating with another?

HERMOGENES: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: And is not that the reason, Hermogenes, why no one, who has been to him,

is willing to come back to us? Even the Sirens, like all the rest of the world, have been

laid under his spells. Such a charm, as I imagine, is the God able to infuse into his words.

And, according to this view, he is the perfect and accomplished Sophist, and the great

benefactor of the inhabitants of the other world; and even to us who are upon earth he

sends from below exceeding blessings. For he has much more than he wants down

there; wherefore he is called Pluto (or the rich). Note also, that he will have nothing to

do with men while they are in the body, but only when the soul is liberated from the

desires and evils of the body. Now there is a great deal of philosophy and reflection in

that; for in their liberated state he can bind them with the desire of virtue, but while they

are flustered and maddened by the body, not even father Cronos himself would suffice

to keep them with him in his own far-famed chains.

HERMOGENES: There is a deal of truth in what you say.

SOCRATES: Yes, Hermogenes, and the legislator called him Hades, not from the unseen

(aeides)—far otherwise, but from his knowledge (eidenai) of all noble things.

HERMOGENES: Very good; and what do we say of Demeter, and Here, and Apollo, and

Athene, and Hephaestus, and Ares, and the other deities?

SOCRATES: Demeter is e didousa meter, who gives food like a mother; Here is the lovely

one (erate)—for Zeus, according to tradition, loved and married her; possibly also the

name may have been given when the legislator was thinking of the heavens, and may be

only a disguise of the air (aer), putting the end in the place of the beginning. You will

recognize the truth of this if you repeat the letters of Here several times over. People

dread the name of Pherephatta as they dread the name of Apollo,—and with as little

reason; the fear, if I am not mistaken, only arises from their ignorance of the nature of

names. But they go changing the name into Phersephone, and they are terrified at this;

whereas the new name means only that the Goddess is wise (sophe); for seeing that all

things in the world are in motion (pheromenon), that principle which embraces and

touches and is able to follow them, is wisdom. And therefore the Goddess may be truly

called Pherepaphe (Pherepapha), or some name like it, because she touches that which

is in motion (tou pheromenon ephaptomene), herein showing her wisdom. And Hades,

who is wise, consorts with her, because she is wise. They alter her name into Pherephatta

now-a-days, because the present generation care for euphony more than truth. There is

the other name, Apollo, which, as I was saying, is generally supposed to have some

terrible signification. Have you remarked this fact?

HERMOGENES: To be sure I have, and what you say is true.

SOCRATES: But the name, in my opinion, is really most expressive of the power of the

God.

HERMOGENES: How so?

SOCRATES: I will endeavour to explain, for I do not believe that any single name could

have been better adapted to express the attributes of the God, embracing and in a

manner signifying all four of them,—music, and prophecy, and medicine, and archery.

HERMOGENES: That must be a strange name, and I should like to hear the explanation.

SOCRATES: Say rather an harmonious name, as beseems the God of Harmony. In the

first place, the purgations and purifications which doctors and diviners use, and their

fumigations with drugs magical or medicinal, as well as their washings and lustral

sprinklings, have all one and the same object, which is to make a man pure both in body

and soul.

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And is not Apollo the purifier, and the washer, and the absolver from all

impurities?

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then in reference to his ablutions and absolutions, as being the physician

who orders them, he may be rightly called Apolouon (purifier); or in respect of his

powers of divination, and his truth and sincerity, which is the same as truth, he may be

most fitly called Aplos, from aplous (sincere), as in the Thessalian dialect, for all the

Thessalians call him Aplos; also he is aei Ballon (always shooting), because he is a master

archer who never misses; or again, the name may refer to his musical attributes, and

then, as in akolouthos, and akoitis, and in many other words the alpha is supposed to

mean 'together,' so the meaning of the name Apollo will be 'moving together,' whether

in the poles of heaven as they are called, or in the harmony of song, which is termed

concord, because he moves all together by an harmonious power, as astronomers and

musicians ingeniously declare. And he is the God who presides over harmony, and

makes all things move together, both among Gods and among men. And as in the

words akolouthos and akoitis the alpha is substituted for an omicron, so the name

Apollon is equivalent to omopolon; only the second lambda is added in order to avoid

the ill-omened sound of destruction (apolon). Now the suspicion of this destructive

power still haunts the minds of some who do not consider the true value of the name,

which, as I was saying just now, has reference to all the powers of the God, who is the

single one, the everdarting, the purifier, the mover together (aplous, aei Ballon,

apolouon, omopolon). The name of the Muses and of music would seem to be derived

from their making philosophical enquiries (mosthai); and Leto is called by this name,

because she is such a gentle Goddess, and so willing (ethelemon) to grant our requests;

or her name may be Letho, as she is often called by strangers—they seem to imply by it

her amiability, and her smooth and easy-going way of behaving. Artemis is named from

her healthy (artemes), well-ordered nature, and because of her love of virginity, perhaps

because she is a proficient in virtue (arete), and perhaps also as hating intercourse of the

sexes (ton aroton misesasa). He who gave the Goddess her name may have had any or

all of these reasons.

HERMOGENES: What is the meaning of Dionysus and Aphrodite?

SOCRATES: Son of Hipponicus, you ask a solemn question; there is a serious and also a

facetious explanation of both these names; the serious explanation is not to be had

from me, but there is no objection to your hearing the facetious one; for the Gods too

love a joke. Dionusos is simply didous oinon (giver of wine), Didoinusos, as he might be

called in fun,—and oinos is properly oionous, because wine makes those who drink,

think (oiesthai) that they have a mind (noun) when they have none. The derivation of

Aphrodite, born of the foam (aphros), may be fairly accepted on the authority of Hesiod.

HERMOGENES: Still there remains Athene, whom you, Socrates, as an Athenian, will

surely not forget; there are also Hephaestus and Ares.

SOCRATES: I am not likely to forget them.

HERMOGENES: No, indeed.

SOCRATES: There is no difficulty in explaining the other appellation of Athene.

HERMOGENES: What other appellation?

SOCRATES: We call her Pallas.

HERMOGENES: To be sure.

SOCRATES: And we cannot be wrong in supposing that this is derived from armed

dances. For the elevation of oneself or anything else above the earth, or by the use of

the hands, we call shaking (pallein), or dancing.

HERMOGENES: That is quite true.

SOCRATES: Then that is the explanation of the name Pallas?

HERMOGENES: Yes; but what do you say of the other name?

SOCRATES: Athene?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: That is a graver matter, and there, my friend, the modern interpreters of

Homer may, I think, assist in explaining the view of the ancients. For most of these in

their explanations of the poet, assert that he meant by Athene 'mind' (nous) and

'intelligence' (dianoia), and the maker of names appears to have had a singular notion

about her; and indeed calls her by a still higher title, 'divine intelligence' (Thou noesis),

as though he would say: This is she who has the mind of God (Theonoa);—using alpha

as a dialectical variety for eta, and taking away iota and sigma (There seems to be some

error in the MSS. The meaning is that the word theonoa = theounoa is a curtailed form

of theou noesis, but the omitted letters do not agree.). Perhaps, however, the name

Theonoe may mean 'she who knows divine things' (Theia noousa) better than others.

Nor shall we be far wrong in supposing that the author of it wished to identify this

Goddess with moral intelligence (en ethei noesin), and therefore gave her the name

ethonoe; which, however, either he or his successors have altered into what they

thought a nicer form, and called her Athene.

HERMOGENES: But what do you say of Hephaestus?

SOCRATES: Speak you of the princely lord of light (Phaeos istora)?

HERMOGENES: Surely.

SOCRATES: Ephaistos is Phaistos, and has added the eta by attraction; that is obvious to

anybody.

HERMOGENES: That is very probable, until some more probable notion gets into your

head.

SOCRATES: To prevent that, you had better ask what is the derivation of Ares.

HERMOGENES: What is Ares?

SOCRATES: Ares may be called, if you will, from his manhood (arren) and manliness, or if

you please, from his hard and unchangeable nature, which is the meaning of arratos: the

latter is a derivation in every way appropriate to the God of war.

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And now, by the Gods, let us have no more of the Gods, for I am afraid of

them; ask about anything but them, and thou shalt see how the steeds of Euthyphro can

prance.

HERMOGENES: Only one more God! I should like to know about Hermes, of whom I am

said not to be a true son. Let us make him out, and then I shall know whether there is

any meaning in what Cratylus says.

SOCRATES: I should imagine that the name Hermes has to do with speech, and signifies

that he is the interpreter (ermeneus), or messenger, or thief, or liar, or bargainer; all that

sort of thing has a great deal to do with language; as I was telling you, the word eirein is

expressive of the use of speech, and there is an often-recurring Homeric word emesato,

which means 'he contrived'—out of these two words, eirein and mesasthai, the legislator

formed the name of the God who invented language and speech; and we may imagine

him dictating to us the use of this name: 'O my friends,' says he to us, 'seeing that he is

the contriver of tales or speeches, you may rightly call him Eirhemes.' And this has been

improved by us, as we think, into Hermes. Iris also appears to have been called from the

verb 'to tell' (eirein), because she was a messenger.

HERMOGENES: Then I am very sure that Cratylus was quite right in saying that I was no

true son of Hermes (Ermogenes), for I am not a good hand at speeches.

SOCRATES: There is also reason, my friend, in Pan being the double-formed son of

Hermes.

HERMOGENES: How do you make that out?

SOCRATES: You are aware that speech signifies all things (pan), and is always turning

them round and round, and has two forms, true and false?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Is not the truth that is in him the smooth or sacred form which dwells above

among the Gods, whereas falsehood dwells among men below, and is rough like the

goat of tragedy; for tales and falsehoods have generally to do with the tragic or goatish

life, and tragedy is the place of them?

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then surely Pan, who is the declarer of all things (pan) and the perpetual

mover (aei polon) of all things, is rightly called aipolos (goat- herd), he being the twoformed

son of Hermes, smooth in his upper part, and rough and goatlike in his lower

regions. And, as the son of Hermes, he is speech or the brother of speech, and that

brother should be like brother is no marvel. But, as I was saying, my dear Hermogenes,

let us get away from the Gods.

HERMOGENES: From these sort of Gods, by all means, Socrates. But why should we not

discuss another kind of Gods—the sun, moon, stars, earth, aether, air, fire, water, the

seasons, and the year?

SOCRATES: You impose a great many tasks upon me. Still, if you wish, I will not refuse.

HERMOGENES: You will oblige me.

SOCRATES: How would you have me begin? Shall I take first of all him whom you

mentioned first—the sun?

HERMOGENES: Very good.

SOCRATES: The origin of the sun will probably be clearer in the Doric form, for the

Dorians call him alios, and this name is given to him because when he rises he gathers

(alizoi) men together or because he is always rolling in his course (aei eilein ion) about

the earth; or from aiolein, of which the meaning is the same as poikillein (to variegate),

because he variegates the productions of the earth.

HERMOGENES: But what is selene (the moon)?

SOCRATES: That name is rather unfortunate for Anaxagoras.

HERMOGENES: How so?

SOCRATES: The word seems to forestall his recent discovery, that the moon receives her

light from the sun.

HERMOGENES: Why do you say so?

SOCRATES: The two words selas (brightness) and phos (light) have much the same

meaning?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: This light about the moon is always new (neon) and always old (enon), if the

disciples of Anaxagoras say truly. For the sun in his revolution always adds new light,

and there is the old light of the previous month.

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: The moon is not unfrequently called selanaia.

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: And as she has a light which is always old and always new (enon neon aei)

she may very properly have the name selaenoneoaeia; and this when hammered into

shape becomes selanaia.

HERMOGENES: A real dithyrambic sort of name that, Socrates. But what do you say of

the month and the stars?

SOCRATES: Meis (month) is called from meiousthai (to lessen), because suffering

diminution; the name of astra (stars) seems to be derived from astrape, which is an

improvement on anastrope, signifying the upsetting of the eyes (anastrephein opa).

HERMOGENES: What do you say of pur (fire) and udor (water)?

SOCRATES: I am at a loss how to explain pur; either the muse of Euthyphro has deserted

me, or there is some very great difficulty in the word. Please, however, to note the

contrivance which I adopt whenever I am in a difficulty of this sort.

HERMOGENES: What is it?

SOCRATES: I will tell you; but I should like to know first whether you can tell me what is

the meaning of the pur?

HERMOGENES: Indeed I cannot.

SOCRATES: Shall I tell you what I suspect to be the true explanation of this and several

other words?—My belief is that they are of foreign origin. For the Hellenes, especially

those who were under the dominion of the barbarians, often borrowed from them.

HERMOGENES: What is the inference?

SOCRATES: Why, you know that any one who seeks to demonstrate the fitness of these

names according to the Hellenic language, and not according to the language from

which the words are derived, is rather likely to be at fault.

HERMOGENES: Yes, certainly.

SOCRATES: Well then, consider whether this pur is not foreign; for the word is not easily

brought into relation with the Hellenic tongue, and the Phrygians may be observed to

have the same word slightly changed, just as they have udor (water) and kunes (dogs),

and many other words.

HERMOGENES: That is true.

SOCRATES: Any violent interpretations of the words should be avoided; for something

to say about them may easily be found. And thus I get rid of pur and udor. Aer (air),

Hermogenes, may be explained as the element which raises (airei) things from the earth,

or as ever flowing (aei rei), or because the flux of the air is wind, and the poets call the

winds 'air- blasts,' (aetai); he who uses the term may mean, so to speak, air-flux

(aetorroun), in the sense of wind-flux (pneumatorroun); and because this moving wind

may be expressed by either term he employs the word air (aer = aetes rheo). Aither

(aether) I should interpret as aeitheer; this may be correctly said, because this element is

always running in a flux about the air (aei thei peri tou aera reon). The meaning of the

word ge (earth) comes out better when in the form of gaia, for the earth may be truly

called 'mother' (gaia, genneteira), as in the language of Homer (Od.) gegaasi means

gegennesthai.

HERMOGENES: Good.

SOCRATES: What shall we take next?

HERMOGENES: There are orai (the seasons), and the two names of the year, eniautos

and etos.

SOCRATES: The orai should be spelt in the old Attic way, if you desire to know the

probable truth about them; they are rightly called the orai because they divide

(orizousin) the summers and winters and winds and the fruits of the earth. The words

eniautos and etos appear to be the same,— 'that which brings to light the plants and

growths of the earth in their turn, and passes them in review within itself (en eauto

exetazei)': this is broken up into two words, eniautos from en eauto, and etos from

etazei, just as the original name of Zeus was divided into Zena and Dia; and the whole

proposition means that his power of reviewing from within is one, but has two names,

two words etos and eniautos being thus formed out of a single proposition.

HERMOGENES: Indeed, Socrates, you make surprising progress.

SOCRATES: I am run away with.

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: But am not yet at my utmost speed.

HERMOGENES: I should like very much to know, in the next place, how you would

explain the virtues. What principle of correctness is there in those charming words—

wisdom, understanding, justice, and the rest of them?

SOCRATES: That is a tremendous class of names which you are disinterring; still, as I

have put on the lion's skin, I must not be faint of heart; and I suppose that I must

consider the meaning of wisdom (phronesis) and understanding (sunesis), and judgment

(gnome), and knowledge (episteme), and all those other charming words, as you call

them?

HERMOGENES: Surely, we must not leave off until we find out their meaning.

SOCRATES: By the dog of Egypt I have a not bad notion which came into my head only

this moment: I believe that the primeval givers of names were undoubtedly like too

many of our modern philosophers, who, in their search after the nature of things, are

always getting dizzy from constantly going round and round, and then they imagine

that the world is going round and round and moving in all directions; and this

appearance, which arises out of their own internal condition, they suppose to be a

reality of nature; they think that there is nothing stable or permanent, but only flux and

motion, and that the world is always full of every sort of motion and change. The

consideration of the names which I mentioned has led me into making this reflection.

HERMOGENES: How is that, Socrates?

SOCRATES: Perhaps you did not observe that in the names which have been just cited,

the motion or flux or generation of things is most surely indicated.

HERMOGENES: No, indeed, I never thought of it.

SOCRATES: Take the first of those which you mentioned; clearly that is a name indicative

of motion.

HERMOGENES: What was the name?

SOCRATES: Phronesis (wisdom), which may signify phoras kai rhou noesis (perception of

motion and flux), or perhaps phoras onesis (the blessing of motion), but is at any rate

connected with pheresthai (motion); gnome (judgment), again, certainly implies the

ponderation or consideration (nomesis) of generation, for to ponder is the same as to

consider; or, if you would rather, here is noesis, the very word just now mentioned,

which is neou esis (the desire of the new); the word neos implies that the world is always

in process of creation. The giver of the name wanted to express this longing of the soul,

for the original name was neoesis, and not noesis; but eta took the place of a double

epsilon. The word sophrosune is the salvation (soteria) of that wisdom (phronesis) which

we were just now considering. Epioteme (knowledge) is akin to this, and indicates that

the soul which is good for anything follows (epetai) the motion of things, neither

anticipating them nor falling behind them; wherefore the word should rather be read as

epistemene, inserting epsilon nu. Sunesis (understanding) may be regarded in like

manner as a kind of conclusion; the word is derived from sunienai (to go along with),

and, like epistasthai (to know), implies the progression of the soul in company with the

nature of things. Sophia (wisdom) is very dark, and appears not to be of native growth;

the meaning is, touching the motion or stream of things. You must remember that the

poets, when they speak of the commencement of any rapid motion, often use the word

esuthe (he rushed); and there was a famous Lacedaemonian who was named Sous

(Rush), for by this word the Lacedaemonians signify rapid motion, and the touching

(epaphe) of motion is expressed by sophia, for all things are supposed to be in motion.

Good (agathon) is the name which is given to the admirable (agasto) in nature; for,

although all things move, still there are degrees of motion; some are swifter, some

slower; but there are some things which are admirable for their swiftness, and this

admirable part of nature is called agathon. Dikaiosune (justice) is clearly dikaiou sunesis

(understanding of the just); but the actual word dikaion is more difficult: men are only

agreed to a certain extent about justice, and then they begin to disagree. For those who

suppose all things to be in motion conceive the greater part of nature to be a mere

receptacle; and they say that there is a penetrating power which passes through all this,

and is the instrument of creation in all, and is the subtlest and swiftest element; for if it

were not the subtlest, and a power which none can keep out, and also the swiftest,

passing by other things as if they were standing still, it could not penetrate through the

moving universe. And this element, which superintends all things and pierces (diaion) all,

is rightly called dikaion; the letter k is only added for the sake of euphony. Thus far, as I

was saying, there is a general agreement about the nature of justice; but I, Hermogenes,

being an enthusiastic disciple, have been told in a mystery that the justice of which I am

speaking is also the cause of the world: now a cause is that because of which anything is

created; and some one comes and whispers in my ear that justice is rightly so called

because partaking of the nature of the cause, and I begin, after hearing what he has

said, to interrogate him gently: 'Well, my excellent friend,' say I, 'but if all this be true, I

still want to know what is justice.' Thereupon they think that I ask tiresome questions,

and am leaping over the barriers, and have been already sufficiently answered, and they

try to satisfy me with one derivation after another, and at length they quarrel. For one of

them says that justice is the sun, and that he only is the piercing (diaionta) and burning

(kaonta) element which is the guardian of nature. And when I joyfully repeat this

beautiful notion, I am answered by the satirical remark, 'What, is there no justice in the

world when the sun is down?' And when I earnestly beg my questioner to tell me his

own honest opinion, he says, 'Fire in the abstract'; but this is not very intelligible.

Another says, 'No, not fire in the abstract, but the abstraction of heat in the fire.'

Another man professes to laugh at all this, and says, as Anaxagoras says, that justice is

mind, for mind, as they say, has absolute power, and mixes with nothing, and orders all

things, and passes through all things. At last, my friend, I find myself in far greater

perplexity about the nature of justice than I was before I began to learn. But still I am of

opinion that the name, which has led me into this digression, was given to justice for the

reasons which I have mentioned.

HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that you are not improvising now; you must have heard

this from some one else.

SOCRATES: And not the rest?

HERMOGENES: Hardly.

SOCRATES: Well, then, let me go on in the hope of making you believe in the originality

of the rest. What remains after justice? I do not think that we have as yet discussed

courage (andreia),—injustice (adikia), which is obviously nothing more than a hindrance

to the penetrating principle (diaiontos), need not be considered. Well, then, the name of

andreia seems to imply a battle;—this battle is in the world of existence, and according

to the doctrine of flux is only the counterflux (enantia rhon): if you extract the delta from

andreia, the name at once signifies the thing, and you may clearly understand that

andreia is not the stream opposed to every stream, but only to that which is contrary to

justice, for otherwise courage would not have been praised. The words arren (male) and

aner (man) also contain a similar allusion to the same principle of the upward flux (te

ano rhon). Gune (woman) I suspect to be the same word as goun (birth): thelu (female)

appears to be partly derived from thele (the teat), because the teat is like rain, and

makes things flourish (tethelenai).

HERMOGENES: That is surely probable.

SOCRATES: Yes; and the very word thallein (to flourish) seems to figure the growth of

youth, which is swift and sudden ever. And this is expressed by the legislator in the

name, which is a compound of thein (running), and allesthai (leaping). Pray observe how

I gallop away when I get on smooth ground. There are a good many names generally

thought to be of importance, which have still to be explained.

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: There is the meaning of the word techne (art), for example.

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: That may be identified with echonoe, and expresses the possession of mind:

you have only to take away the tau and insert two omichrons, one between the chi and

nu, and another between the nu and eta.

HERMOGENES: That is a very shabby etymology.

SOCRATES: Yes, my dear friend; but then you know that the original names have been

long ago buried and disguised by people sticking on and stripping off letters for the

sake of euphony, and twisting and bedizening them in all sorts of ways: and time too

may have had a share in the change. Take, for example, the word katoptron; why is the

letter rho inserted? This must surely be the addition of some one who cares nothing

about the truth, but thinks only of putting the mouth into shape. And the additions are

often such that at last no human being can possibly make out the original meaning of

the word. Another example is the word sphigx, sphiggos, which ought properly to be

phigx, phiggos, and there are other examples.

HERMOGENES: That is quite true, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And yet, if you are permitted to put in and pull out any letters which you

please, names will be too easily made, and any name may be adapted to any object.

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: Yes, that is true. And therefore a wise dictator, like yourself, should observe

the laws of moderation and probability.

HERMOGENES: Such is my desire.

SOCRATES: And mine, too, Hermogenes. But do not be too much of a precisian, or 'you

will unnerve me of my strength (Iliad.).' When you have allowed me to add mechane

(contrivance) to techne (art) I shall be at the top of my bent, for I conceive mechane to

be a sign of great accomplishment —anein; for mekos has the meaning of greatness,

and these two, mekos and anein, make up the word mechane. But, as I was saying, being

now at the top of my bent, I should like to consider the meaning of the two words arete

(virtue) and kakia (vice); arete I do not as yet understand, but kakia is transparent, and

agrees with the principles which preceded, for all things being in a flux (ionton), kakia is

kakos ion (going badly); and this evil motion when existing in the soul has the general

name of kakia, or vice, specially appropriated to it. The meaning of kakos ienai may be

further illustrated by the use of deilia (cowardice), which ought to have come after

andreia, but was forgotten, and, as I fear, is not the only word which has been passed

over. Deilia signifies that the soul is bound with a strong chain (desmos), for lian means

strength, and therefore deilia expresses the greatest and strongest bond of the soul; and

aporia (difficulty) is an evil of the same nature (from a (alpha) not, and poreuesthai to

go), like anything else which is an impediment to motion and movement. Then the word

kakia appears to mean kakos ienai, or going badly, or limping and halting; of which the

consequence is, that the soul becomes filled with vice. And if kakia is the name of this

sort of thing, arete will be the opposite of it, signifying in the first place ease of motion,

then that the stream of the good soul is unimpeded, and has therefore the attribute of

ever flowing without let or hindrance, and is therefore called arete, or, more correctly,

aeireite (ever-flowing), and may perhaps have had another form, airete (eligible),

indicating that nothing is more eligible than virtue, and this has been hammered into

arete. I daresay that you will deem this to be another invention of mine, but I think that

if the previous word kakia was right, then arete is also right.

HERMOGENES: But what is the meaning of kakon, which has played so great a part in

your previous discourse?

SOCRATES: That is a very singular word about which I can hardly form an opinion, and

therefore I must have recourse to my ingenious device.

HERMOGENES: What device?

SOCRATES: The device of a foreign origin, which I shall give to this word also.

HERMOGENES: Very likely you are right; but suppose that we leave these words and

endeavour to see the rationale of kalon and aischron.

SOCRATES: The meaning of aischron is evident, being only aei ischon roes (always

preventing from flowing), and this is in accordance with our former derivations. For the

name-giver was a great enemy to stagnation of all sorts, and hence he gave the name

aeischoroun to that which hindered the flux (aei ischon roun), and that is now beaten

together into aischron.

HERMOGENES: But what do you say of kalon?

SOCRATES: That is more obscure; yet the form is only due to the quantity, and has been

changed by altering omicron upsilon into omicron.

HERMOGENES: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: This name appears to denote mind.

HERMOGENES: How so?

SOCRATES: Let me ask you what is the cause why anything has a name; is not the

principle which imposes the name the cause?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And must not this be the mind of Gods, or of men, or of both?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Is not mind that which called (kalesan) things by their names, and is not

mind the beautiful (kalon)?

HERMOGENES: That is evident.

SOCRATES: And are not the works of intelligence and mind worthy of praise, and are not

other works worthy of blame?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Physic does the work of a physician, and carpentering does the works of a

carpenter?

HERMOGENES: Exactly.

SOCRATES: And the principle of beauty does the works of beauty?

HERMOGENES: Of course.

SOCRATES: And that principle we affirm to be mind?

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then mind is rightly called beauty because she does the works which we

recognize and speak of as the beautiful?

HERMOGENES: That is evident.

SOCRATES: What more names remain to us?

HERMOGENES: There are the words which are connected with agathon and kalon, such

as sumpheron and lusiteloun, ophelimon, kerdaleon, and their opposites.

SOCRATES: The meaning of sumpheron (expedient) I think that you may discover for

yourself by the light of the previous examples,—for it is a sister word to episteme,

meaning just the motion (pora) of the soul accompanying the world, and things which

are done upon this principle are called sumphora or sumpheronta, because they are

carried round with the world.

HERMOGENES: That is probable.

SOCRATES: Again, cherdaleon (gainful) is called from cherdos (gain), but you must alter

the delta into nu if you want to get at the meaning; for this word also signifies good, but

in another way; he who gave the name intended to express the power of admixture

(kerannumenon) and universal penetration in the good; in forming the word, however,

he inserted a delta instead of a nu, and so made kerdos.

HERMOGENES: Well, but what is lusiteloun (profitable)?

SOCRATES: I suppose, Hermogenes, that people do not mean by the profitable the

gainful or that which pays (luei) the retailer, but they use the word in the sense of swift.

You regard the profitable (lusiteloun), as that which being the swiftest thing in existence,

allows of no stay in things and no pause or end of motion, but always, if there begins to

be any end, lets things go again (luei), and makes motion immortal and unceasing: and

in this point of view, as appears to me, the good is happily denominated lusiteloun—

being that which looses (luon) the end (telos) of motion. Ophelimon (the advantageous)

is derived from ophellein, meaning that which creates and increases; this latter is a

common Homeric word, and has a foreign character.

HERMOGENES: And what do you say of their opposites?

SOCRATES: Of such as are mere negatives I hardly think that I need speak.

HERMOGENES: Which are they?

SOCRATES: The words axumphoron (inexpedient), anopheles (unprofitable), alusiteles

(unadvantageous), akerdes (ungainful).

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: I would rather take the words blaberon (harmful), zemiodes (hurtful).

HERMOGENES: Good.

SOCRATES: The word blaberon is that which is said to hinder or harm (blaptein) the

stream (roun); blapton is boulomenon aptein (seeking to hold or bind); for aptein is the

same as dein, and dein is always a term of censure; boulomenon aptein roun (wanting

to bind the stream) would properly be boulapteroun, and this, as I imagine, is improved

into blaberon.

HERMOGENES: You bring out curious results, Socrates, in the use of names; and when I

hear the word boulapteroun I cannot help imagining that you are making your mouth

into a flute, and puffing away at some prelude to Athene.

SOCRATES: That is the fault of the makers of the name, Hermogenes; not mine.

HERMOGENES: Very true; but what is the derivation of zemiodes?

SOCRATES: What is the meaning of zemiodes?—let me remark, Hermogenes, how right I

was in saying that great changes are made in the meaning of words by putting in and

pulling out letters; even a very slight permutation will sometimes give an entirely

opposite sense; I may instance the word deon, which occurs to me at the moment, and

reminds me of what I was going to say to you, that the fine fashionable language of

modern times has twisted and disguised and entirely altered the original meaning both

of deon, and also of zemiodes, which in the old language is clearly indicated.

HERMOGENES: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: I will try to explain. You are aware that our forefathers loved the sounds iota

and delta, especially the women, who are most conservative of the ancient language,

but now they change iota into eta or epsilon, and delta into zeta; this is supposed to

increase the grandeur of the sound.

HERMOGENES: How do you mean?

SOCRATES: For example, in very ancient times they called the day either imera or emera

(short e), which is called by us emera (long e).

HERMOGENES: That is true.

SOCRATES: Do you observe that only the ancient form shows the intention of the giver

of the name? of which the reason is, that men long for (imeirousi) and love the light

which comes after the darkness, and is therefore called imera, from imeros, desire.

HERMOGENES: Clearly.

SOCRATES: But now the name is so travestied that you cannot tell the meaning,

although there are some who imagine the day to be called emera because it makes

things gentle (emera different accents).

HERMOGENES: Such is my view.

SOCRATES: And do you know that the ancients said duogon and not zugon?

HERMOGENES: They did so.

SOCRATES: And zugon (yoke) has no meaning,—it ought to be duogon, which word

expresses the binding of two together (duein agoge) for the purpose of drawing;—this

has been changed into zugon, and there are many other examples of similar changes.

HERMOGENES: There are.

SOCRATES: Proceeding in the same train of thought I may remark that the word deon

(obligation) has a meaning which is the opposite of all the other appellations of good;

for deon is here a species of good, and is, nevertheless, the chain (desmos) or hinderer

of motion, and therefore own brother of blaberon.

HERMOGENES: Yes, Socrates; that is quite plain.

SOCRATES: Not if you restore the ancient form, which is more likely to be the correct

one, and read dion instead of deon; if you convert the epsilon into an iota after the old

fashion, this word will then agree with other words meaning good; for dion, not deon,

signifies the good, and is a term of praise; and the author of names has not contradicted

himself, but in all these various appellations, deon (obligatory), ophelimon

(advantageous), lusiteloun (profitable), kerdaleon (gainful), agathon (good), sumpheron

(expedient), euporon (plenteous), the same conception is implied of the ordering or allpervading

principle which is praised, and the restraining and binding principle which is

censured. And this is further illustrated by the word zemiodes (hurtful), which if the zeta

is only changed into delta as in the ancient language, becomes demiodes; and this

name, as you will perceive, is given to that which binds motion (dounti ion).

HERMOGENES: What do you say of edone (pleasure), lupe (pain), epithumia (desire), and

the like, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I do not think, Hermogenes, that there is any great difficulty about them—

edone is e (eta) onesis, the action which tends to advantage; and the original form may

be supposed to have been eone, but this has been altered by the insertion of the delta.

Lupe appears to be derived from the relaxation (luein) which the body feels when in

sorrow; ania (trouble) is the hindrance of motion (alpha and ienai); algedon (distress), if I

am not mistaken, is a foreign word, which is derived from aleinos (grievous); odune

(grief) is called from the putting on (endusis) sorrow; in achthedon (vexation) 'the word

too labours,' as any one may see; chara (joy) is the very expression of the fluency and

diffusion of the soul (cheo); terpsis (delight) is so called from the pleasure creeping

(erpon) through the soul, which may be likened to a breath (pnoe) and is properly

erpnoun, but has been altered by time into terpnon; eupherosune (cheerfulness) and

epithumia explain themselves; the former, which ought to be eupherosune and has been

changed euphrosune, is named, as every one may see, from the soul moving

(pheresthai) in harmony with nature; epithumia is really e epi ton thumon iousa

dunamis, the power which enters into the soul; thumos (passion) is called from the

rushing (thuseos) and boiling of the soul; imeros (desire) denotes the stream (rous)

which most draws the soul dia ten esin tes roes— because flowing with desire

(iemenos), and expresses a longing after things and violent attraction of the soul to

them, and is termed imeros from possessing this power; pothos (longing) is expressive

of the desire of that which is not present but absent, and in another place (pou); this is

the reason why the name pothos is applied to things absent, as imeros is to things

present; eros (love) is so called because flowing in (esron) from without; the stream is

not inherent, but is an influence introduced through the eyes, and from flowing in was

called esros (influx) in the old time when they used omicron for omega, and is called

eros, now that omega is substituted for omicron. But why do you not give me another

word?

HERMOGENES: What do you think of doxa (opinion), and that class of words?

SOCRATES: Doxa is either derived from dioxis (pursuit), and expresses the march of the

soul in the pursuit of knowledge, or from the shooting of a bow (toxon); the latter is

more likely, and is confirmed by oiesis (thinking), which is only oisis (moving), and

implies the movement of the soul to the essential nature of each thing—just as boule

(counsel) has to do with shooting (bole); and boulesthai (to wish) combines the notion

of aiming and deliberating—all these words seem to follow doxa, and all involve the

idea of shooting, just as aboulia, absence of counsel, on the other hand, is a mishap, or

missing, or mistaking of the mark, or aim, or proposal, or object.

HERMOGENES: You are quickening your pace now, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Why yes, the end I now dedicate to God, not, however, until I have explained

anagke (necessity), which ought to come next, and ekousion (the voluntary). Ekousion is

certainly the yielding (eikon) and unresisting—the notion implied is yielding and not

opposing, yielding, as I was just now saying, to that motion which is in accordance with

our will; but the necessary and resistant being contrary to our will, implies error and

ignorance; the idea is taken from walking through a ravine which is impassable, and

rugged, and overgrown, and impedes motion—and this is the derivation of the word

anagkaion (necessary) an agke ion, going through a ravine. But while my strength lasts

let us persevere, and I hope that you will persevere with your questions.

HERMOGENES: Well, then, let me ask about the greatest and noblest, such as aletheia

(truth) and pseudos (falsehood) and on (being), not forgetting to enquire why the word

onoma (name), which is the theme of our discussion, has this name of onoma.

SOCRATES: You know the word maiesthai (to seek)?

HERMOGENES: Yes;—meaning the same as zetein (to enquire).

SOCRATES: The word onoma seems to be a compressed sentence, signifying on ou

zetema (being for which there is a search); as is still more obvious in onomaston

(notable), which states in so many words that real existence is that for which there is a

seeking (on ou masma); aletheia is also an agglomeration of theia ale (divine

wandering), implying the divine motion of existence; pseudos (falsehood) is the

opposite of motion; here is another ill name given by the legislator to stagnation and

forced inaction, which he compares to sleep (eudein); but the original meaning of the

word is disguised by the addition of psi; on and ousia are ion with an iota broken off;

this agrees with the true principle, for being (on) is also moving (ion), and the same may

be said of not being, which is likewise called not going (oukion or ouki on = ouk ion).

HERMOGENES: You have hammered away at them manfully; but suppose that some one

were to say to you, what is the word ion, and what are reon and doun?— show me their

fitness.

SOCRATES: You mean to say, how should I answer him?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: One way of giving the appearance of an answer has been already suggested.

HERMOGENES: What way?

SOCRATES: To say that names which we do not understand are of foreign origin; and

this is very likely the right answer, and something of this kind may be true of them; but

also the original forms of words may have been lost in the lapse of ages; names have

been so twisted in all manner of ways, that I should not be surprised if the old language

when compared with that now in use would appear to us to be a barbarous tongue.

HERMOGENES: Very likely.

SOCRATES: Yes, very likely. But still the enquiry demands our earnest attention and we

must not flinch. For we should remember, that if a person go on analysing names into

words, and enquiring also into the elements out of which the words are formed, and

keeps on always repeating this process, he who has to answer him must at last give up

the enquiry in despair.

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And at what point ought he to lose heart and give up the enquiry? Must he

not stop when he comes to the names which are the elements of all other names and

sentences; for these cannot be supposed to be made up of other names? The word

agathon (good), for example, is, as we were saying, a compound of agastos (admirable)

and thoos (swift). And probably thoos is made up of other elements, and these again of

others. But if we take a word which is incapable of further resolution, then we shall be

right in saying that we have at last reached a primary element, which need not be

resolved any further.

HERMOGENES: I believe you to be in the right.

SOCRATES: And suppose the names about which you are now asking should turn out to

be primary elements, must not their truth or law be examined according to some new

method?

HERMOGENES: Very likely.

SOCRATES: Quite so, Hermogenes; all that has preceded would lead to this conclusion.

And if, as I think, the conclusion is true, then I shall again say to you, come and help me,

that I may not fall into some absurdity in stating the principle of primary names.

HERMOGENES: Let me hear, and I will do my best to assist you.

SOCRATES: I think that you will acknowledge with me, that one principle is applicable to

all names, primary as well as secondary—when they are regarded simply as names, there

is no difference in them.

HERMOGENES: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: All the names that we have been explaining were intended to indicate the

nature of things.

HERMOGENES: Of course.

SOCRATES: And that this is true of the primary quite as much as of the secondary

names, is implied in their being names.

HERMOGENES: Surely.

SOCRATES: But the secondary, as I conceive, derive their significance from the primary.

HERMOGENES: That is evident.

SOCRATES: Very good; but then how do the primary names which precede analysis

show the natures of things, as far as they can be shown; which they must do, if they are

to be real names? And here I will ask you a question: Suppose that we had no voice or

tongue, and wanted to communicate with one another, should we not, like the deaf and

dumb, make signs with the hands and head and the rest of the body?

HERMOGENES: There would be no choice, Socrates.

SOCRATES: We should imitate the nature of the thing; the elevation of our hands to

heaven would mean lightness and upwardness; heaviness and downwardness would be

expressed by letting them drop to the ground; if we were describing the running of a

horse, or any other animal, we should make our bodies and their gestures as like as we

could to them.

HERMOGENES: I do not see that we could do anything else.

SOCRATES: We could not; for by bodily imitation only can the body ever express

anything.

HERMOGENES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And when we want to express ourselves, either with the voice, or tongue, or

mouth, the expression is simply their imitation of that which we want to express.

HERMOGENES: It must be so, I think.

SOCRATES: Then a name is a vocal imitation of that which the vocal imitator names or

imitates?

HERMOGENES: I think so.

SOCRATES: Nay, my friend, I am disposed to think that we have not reached the truth as

yet.

HERMOGENES: Why not?

SOCRATES: Because if we have we shall be obliged to admit that the people who imitate

sheep, or cocks, or other animals, name that which they imitate.

HERMOGENES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: Then could I have been right in what I was saying?

HERMOGENES: In my opinion, no. But I wish that you would tell me, Socrates, what sort

of an imitation is a name?

SOCRATES: In the first place, I should reply, not a musical imitation, although that is also

vocal; nor, again, an imitation of what music imitates; these, in my judgment, would not

be naming. Let me put the matter as follows: All objects have sound and figure, and

many have colour?

HERMOGENES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: But the art of naming appears not to be concerned with imitations of this

kind; the arts which have to do with them are music and drawing?

HERMOGENES: True.

SOCRATES: Again, is there not an essence of each thing, just as there is a colour, or

sound? And is there not an essence of colour and sound as well as of anything else

which may be said to have an essence?

HERMOGENES: I should think so.

SOCRATES: Well, and if any one could express the essence of each thing in letters and

syllables, would he not express the nature of each thing?

HERMOGENES: Quite so.

SOCRATES: The musician and the painter were the two names which you gave to the

two other imitators. What will this imitator be called?

HERMOGENES: I imagine, Socrates, that he must be the namer, or name-giver, of whom

we are in search.

SOCRATES: If this is true, then I think that we are in a condition to consider the names

ron (stream), ienai (to go), schesis (retention), about which you were asking; and we may

see whether the namer has grasped the nature of them in letters and syllables in such a

manner as to imitate the essence or not.

HERMOGENES: Very good.

SOCRATES: But are these the only primary names, or are there others?

HERMOGENES: There must be others.

SOCRATES: So I should expect. But how shall we further analyse them, and where does

the imitator begin? Imitation of the essence is made by syllables and letters; ought we

not, therefore, first to separate the letters, just as those who are beginning rhythm first

distinguish the powers of elementary, and then of compound sounds, and when they

have done so, but not before, they proceed to the consideration of rhythms?

HERMOGENES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Must we not begin in the same way with letters; first separating the vowels,

and then the consonants and mutes (letters which are neither vowels nor semivowels),

into classes, according to the received distinctions of the learned; also the semivowels,

which are neither vowels, nor yet mutes; and distinguishing into classes the vowels

themselves? And when we have perfected the classification of things, we shall give them

names, and see whether, as in the case of letters, there are any classes to which they

may be all referred (cf. Phaedrus); and hence we shall see their natures, and see, too,

whether they have in them classes as there are in the letters; and when we have well

considered all this, we shall know how to apply them to what they resemble—whether

one letter is used to denote one thing, or whether there is to be an admixture of several

of them; just, as in painting, the painter who wants to depict anything sometimes uses

purple only, or any other colour, and sometimes mixes up several colours, as his method

is when he has to paint flesh colour or anything of that kind—he uses his colours as his

figures appear to require them; and so, too, we shall apply letters to the expression of

objects, either single letters when required, or several letters; and so we shall form

syllables, as they are called, and from syllables make nouns and verbs; and thus, at last,

from the combinations of nouns and verbs arrive at language, large and fair and whole;

and as the painter made a figure, even so shall we make speech by the art of the namer

or the rhetorician, or by some other art. Not that I am literally speaking of ourselves, but

I was carried away— meaning to say that this was the way in which (not we but) the

ancients formed language, and what they put together we must take to pieces in like

manner, if we are to attain a scientific view of the whole subject, and we must see

whether the primary, and also whether the secondary elements are rightly given or not,

for if they are not, the composition of them, my dear Hermogenes, will be a sorry piece

of work, and in the wrong direction.

HERMOGENES: That, Socrates, I can quite believe.

SOCRATES: Well, but do you suppose that you will be able to analyse them in this way?

for I am certain that I should not.

HERMOGENES: Much less am I likely to be able.

SOCRATES: Shall we leave them, then? or shall we seek to discover, if we can, something

about them, according to the measure of our ability, saying by way of preface, as I said

before of the Gods, that of the truth about them we know nothing, and do but entertain

human notions of them. And in this present enquiry, let us say to ourselves, before we

proceed, that the higher method is the one which we or others who would analyse

language to any good purpose must follow; but under the circumstances, as men say,

we must do as well as we can. What do you think?

HERMOGENES: I very much approve.

SOCRATES: That objects should be imitated in letters and syllables, and so find

expression, may appear ridiculous, Hermogenes, but it cannot be avoided—there is no

better principle to which we can look for the truth of first names. Deprived of this, we

must have recourse to divine help, like the tragic poets, who in any perplexity have their

gods waiting in the air; and must get out of our difficulty in like fashion, by saying that

'the Gods gave the first names, and therefore they are right.' This will be the best

contrivance, or perhaps that other notion may be even better still, of deriving them from

some barbarous people, for the barbarians are older than we are; or we may say that

antiquity has cast a veil over them, which is the same sort of excuse as the last; for all

these are not reasons but only ingenious excuses for having no reasons concerning the

truth of words. And yet any sort of ignorance of first or primitive names involves an

ignorance of secondary words; for they can only be explained by the primary. Clearly

then the professor of languages should be able to give a very lucid explanation of first

names, or let him be assured he will only talk nonsense about the rest. Do you not

suppose this to be true?

HERMOGENES: Certainly, Socrates.

SOCRATES: My first notions of original names are truly wild and ridiculous, though I

have no objection to impart them to you if you desire, and I hope that you will

communicate to me in return anything better which you may have.

HERMOGENES: Fear not; I will do my best.

SOCRATES: In the first place, the letter rho appears to me to be the general instrument

expressing all motion (kinesis). But I have not yet explained the meaning of this latter

word, which is just iesis (going); for the letter eta was not in use among the ancients,

who only employed epsilon; and the root is kiein, which is a foreign form, the same as

ienai. And the old word kinesis will be correctly given as iesis in corresponding modern

letters. Assuming this foreign root kiein, and allowing for the change of the eta and the

insertion of the nu, we have kinesis, which should have been kieinsis or eisis; and stasis

is the negative of ienai (or eisis), and has been improved into stasis. Now the letter rho,

as I was saying, appeared to the imposer of names an excellent instrument for the

expression of motion; and he frequently uses the letter for this purpose: for example, in

the actual words rein and roe he represents motion by rho; also in the words tromos

(trembling), trachus (rugged); and again, in words such as krouein (strike), thrauein

(crush), ereikein (bruise), thruptein (break), kermatixein (crumble), rumbein (whirl): of all

these sorts of movements he generally finds an expression in the letter R, because, as I

imagine, he had observed that the tongue was most agitated and least at rest in the

pronunciation of this letter, which he therefore used in order to express motion, just as

by the letter iota he expresses the subtle elements which pass through all things. This is

why he uses the letter iota as imitative of motion, ienai, iesthai. And there is another

class of letters, phi, psi, sigma, and xi, of which the pronunciation is accompanied by

great expenditure of breath; these are used in the imitation of such notions as psuchron

(shivering), xeon (seething), seiesthai, (to be shaken), seismos (shock), and are always

introduced by the giver of names when he wants to imitate what is phusodes (windy).

He seems to have thought that the closing and pressure of the tongue in the utterance

of delta and tau was expressive of binding and rest in a place: he further observed the

liquid movement of lambda, in the pronunciation of which the tongue slips, and in this

he found the expression of smoothness, as in leios (level), and in the word oliothanein

(to slip) itself, liparon (sleek), in the word kollodes (gluey), and the like: the heavier

sound of gamma detained the slipping tongue, and the union of the two gave the

notion of a glutinous clammy nature, as in glischros, glukus, gloiodes. The nu he

observed to be sounded from within, and therefore to have a notion of inwardness;

hence he introduced the sound in endos and entos: alpha he assigned to the expression

of size, and nu of length, because they are great letters: omicron was the sign of

roundness, and therefore there is plenty of omicron mixed up in the word goggulon

(round). Thus did the legislator, reducing all things into letters and syllables, and

impressing on them names and signs, and out of them by imitation compounding other

signs. That is my view, Hermogenes, of the truth of names; but I should like to hear what

Cratylus has more to say.

HERMOGENES: But, Socrates, as I was telling you before, Cratylus mystifies me; he says

that there is a fitness of names, but he never explains what is this fitness, so that I

cannot tell whether his obscurity is intended or not. Tell me now, Cratylus, here in the

presence of Socrates, do you agree in what Socrates has been saying about names, or

have you something better of your own? and if you have, tell me what your view is, and

then you will either learn of Socrates, or Socrates and I will learn of you.

CRATYLUS: Well, but surely, Hermogenes, you do not suppose that you can learn, or I

explain, any subject of importance all in a moment; at any rate, not such a subject as

language, which is, perhaps, the very greatest of all.

HERMOGENES: No, indeed; but, as Hesiod says, and I agree with him, 'to add little to

little' is worth while. And, therefore, if you think that you can add anything at all,

however small, to our knowledge, take a little trouble and oblige Socrates, and me too,

who certainly have a claim upon you.

SOCRATES: I am by no means positive, Cratylus, in the view which Hermogenes and

myself have worked out; and therefore do not hesitate to say what you think, which if it

be better than my own view I shall gladly accept. And I should not be at all surprized to

find that you have found some better notion. For you have evidently reflected on these

matters and have had teachers, and if you have really a better theory of the truth of

names, you may count me in the number of your disciples.

CRATYLUS: You are right, Socrates, in saying that I have made a study of these matters,

and I might possibly convert you into a disciple. But I fear that the opposite is more

probable, and I already find myself moved to say to you what Achilles in the 'Prayers'

says to Ajax,—

'Illustrious Ajax, son of Telamon, lord of the people, You appear to have spoken in all

things much to my mind.'

And you, Socrates, appear to me to be an oracle, and to give answers much to my mind,

whether you are inspired by Euthyphro, or whether some Muse may have long been an

inhabitant of your breast, unconsciously to yourself.

SOCRATES: Excellent Cratylus, I have long been wondering at my own wisdom; I cannot

trust myself. And I think that I ought to stop and ask myself What am I saying? for there

is nothing worse than self-deception—when the deceiver is always at home and always

with you—it is quite terrible, and therefore I ought often to retrace my steps and

endeavour to 'look fore and aft,' in the words of the aforesaid Homer. And now let me

see; where are we? Have we not been saying that the correct name indicates the nature

of the thing:—has this proposition been sufficiently proven?

CRATYLUS: Yes, Socrates, what you say, as I am disposed to think, is quite true.

SOCRATES: Names, then, are given in order to instruct?

CRATYLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And naming is an art, and has artificers?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And who are they?

CRATYLUS: The legislators, of whom you spoke at first.

SOCRATES: And does this art grow up among men like other arts? Let me explain what I

mean: of painters, some are better and some worse?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: The better painters execute their works, I mean their figures, better, and the

worse execute them worse; and of builders also, the better sort build fairer houses, and

the worse build them worse.

CRATYLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And among legislators, there are some who do their work better and some

worse?

CRATYLUS: No; there I do not agree with you.

SOCRATES: Then you do not think that some laws are better and others worse?

CRATYLUS: No, indeed.

SOCRATES: Or that one name is better than another?

CRATYLUS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Then all names are rightly imposed?

CRATYLUS: Yes, if they are names at all.

SOCRATES: Well, what do you say to the name of our friend Hermogenes, which was

mentioned before:—assuming that he has nothing of the nature of Hermes in him, shall

we say that this is a wrong name, or not his name at all?

CRATYLUS: I should reply that Hermogenes is not his name at all, but only appears to be

his, and is really the name of somebody else, who has the nature which corresponds to

it.

SOCRATES: And if a man were to call him Hermogenes, would he not be even speaking

falsely? For there may be a doubt whether you can call him Hermogenes, if he is not.

CRATYLUS: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: Are you maintaining that falsehood is impossible? For if this is your meaning

I should answer, that there have been plenty of liars in all ages.

CRATYLUS: Why, Socrates, how can a man say that which is not?—say something and

yet say nothing? For is not falsehood saying the thing which is not?

SOCRATES: Your argument, friend, is too subtle for a man of my age. But I should like to

know whether you are one of those philosophers who think that falsehood may be

spoken but not said?

CRATYLUS: Neither spoken nor said.

SOCRATES: Nor uttered nor addressed? For example: If a person, saluting you in a

foreign country, were to take your hand and say: 'Hail, Athenian stranger, Hermogenes,

son of Smicrion'—these words, whether spoken, said, uttered, or addressed, would have

no application to you but only to our friend Hermogenes, or perhaps to nobody at all?

CRATYLUS: In my opinion, Socrates, the speaker would only be talking nonsense.

SOCRATES: Well, but that will be quite enough for me, if you will tell me whether the

nonsense would be true or false, or partly true and partly false:—which is all that I want

to know.

CRATYLUS: I should say that he would be putting himself in motion to no purpose; and

that his words would be an unmeaning sound like the noise of hammering at a brazen

pot.

SOCRATES: But let us see, Cratylus, whether we cannot find a meeting- point, for you

would admit that the name is not the same with the thing named?

CRATYLUS: I should.

SOCRATES: And would you further acknowledge that the name is an imitation of the

thing?

CRATYLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And you would say that pictures are also imitations of things, but in another

way?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: I believe you may be right, but I do not rightly understand you. Please to

say, then, whether both sorts of imitation (I mean both pictures or words) are not

equally attributable and applicable to the things of which they are the imitation.

CRATYLUS: They are.

SOCRATES: First look at the matter thus: you may attribute the likeness of the man to

the man, and of the woman to the woman; and so on?

CRATYLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And conversely you may attribute the likeness of the man to the woman,

and of the woman to the man?

CRATYLUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And are both modes of assigning them right, or only the first?

CRATYLUS: Only the first.

SOCRATES: That is to say, the mode of assignment which attributes to each that which

belongs to them and is like them?

CRATYLUS: That is my view.

SOCRATES: Now then, as I am desirous that we being friends should have a good

understanding about the argument, let me state my view to you: the first mode of

assignment, whether applied to figures or to names, I call right, and when applied to

names only, true as well as right; and the other mode of giving and assigning the name

which is unlike, I call wrong, and in the case of names, false as well as wrong.

CRATYLUS: That may be true, Socrates, in the case of pictures; they may be wrongly

assigned; but not in the case of names—they must be always right.

SOCRATES: Why, what is the difference? May I not go to a man and say to him, 'This is

your picture,' showing him his own likeness, or perhaps the likeness of a woman; and

when I say 'show,' I mean bring before the sense of sight.

CRATYLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And may I not go to him again, and say, 'This is your name'?— for the name,

like the picture, is an imitation. May I not say to him— 'This is your name'? and may I

not then bring to his sense of hearing the imitation of himself, when I say, 'This is a

man'; or of a female of the human species, when I say, 'This is a woman,' as the case may

be? Is not all that quite possible?

CRATYLUS: I would fain agree with you, Socrates; and therefore I say, Granted.

SOCRATES: That is very good of you, if I am right, which need hardly be disputed at

present. But if I can assign names as well as pictures to objects, the right assignment of

them we may call truth, and the wrong assignment of them falsehood. Now if there be

such a wrong assignment of names, there may also be a wrong or inappropriate

assignment of verbs; and if of names and verbs then of the sentences, which are made

up of them. What do you say, Cratylus?

CRATYLUS: I agree; and think that what you say is very true.

SOCRATES: And further, primitive nouns may be compared to pictures, and in pictures

you may either give all the appropriate colours and figures, or you may not give them

all—some may be wanting; or there may be too many or too much of them—may there

not?

CRATYLUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And he who gives all gives a perfect picture or figure; and he who takes

away or adds also gives a picture or figure, but not a good one.

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: In like manner, he who by syllables and letters imitates the nature of things,

if he gives all that is appropriate will produce a good image, or in other words a name;

but if he subtracts or perhaps adds a little, he will make an image but not a good one;

whence I infer that some names are well and others ill made.

CRATYLUS: That is true.

SOCRATES: Then the artist of names may be sometimes good, or he may be bad?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And this artist of names is called the legislator?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then like other artists the legislator may be good or he may be bad; it must

surely be so if our former admissions hold good?

CRATYLUS: Very true, Socrates; but the case of language, you see, is different; for when

by the help of grammar we assign the letters alpha or beta, or any other letters to a

certain name, then, if we add, or subtract, or misplace a letter, the name which is written

is not only written wrongly, but not written at all; and in any of these cases becomes

other than a name.

SOCRATES: But I doubt whether your view is altogether correct, Cratylus.

CRATYLUS: How so?

SOCRATES: I believe that what you say may be true about numbers, which must be just

what they are, or not be at all; for example, the number ten at once becomes other than

ten if a unit be added or subtracted, and so of any other number: but this does not

apply to that which is qualitative or to anything which is represented under an image. I

should say rather that the image, if expressing in every point the entire reality, would no

longer be an image. Let us suppose the existence of two objects: one of them shall be

Cratylus, and the other the image of Cratylus; and we will suppose, further, that some

God makes not only a representation such as a painter would make of your outward

form and colour, but also creates an inward organization like yours, having the same

warmth and softness; and into this infuses motion, and soul, and mind, such as you

have, and in a word copies all your qualities, and places them by you in another form;

would you say that this was Cratylus and the image of Cratylus, or that there were two

Cratyluses?

CRATYLUS: I should say that there were two Cratyluses.

SOCRATES: Then you see, my friend, that we must find some other principle of truth in

images, and also in names; and not insist that an image is no longer an image when

something is added or subtracted. Do you not perceive that images are very far from

having qualities which are the exact counterpart of the realities which they represent?

CRATYLUS: Yes, I see.

SOCRATES: But then how ridiculous would be the effect of names on things, if they were

exactly the same with them! For they would be the doubles of them, and no one would

be able to determine which were the names and which were the realities.

CRATYLUS: Quite true.

SOCRATES: Then fear not, but have the courage to admit that one name may be

correctly and another incorrectly given; and do not insist that the name shall be exactly

the same with the thing; but allow the occasional substitution of a wrong letter, and if of

a letter also of a noun in a sentence, and if of a noun in a sentence also of a sentence

which is not appropriate to the matter, and acknowledge that the thing may be named,

and described, so long as the general character of the thing which you are describing is

retained; and this, as you will remember, was remarked by Hermogenes and myself in

the particular instance of the names of the letters.

CRATYLUS: Yes, I remember.

SOCRATES: Good; and when the general character is preserved, even if some of the

proper letters are wanting, still the thing is signified;—well, if all the letters are given; not

well, when only a few of them are given. I think that we had better admit this, lest we be

punished like travellers in Aegina who wander about the street late at night: and be

likewise told by truth herself that we have arrived too late; or if not, you must find out

some new notion of correctness of names, and no longer maintain that a name is the

expression of a thing in letters or syllables; for if you say both, you will be inconsistent

with yourself.

CRATYLUS: I quite acknowledge, Socrates, what you say to be very reasonable.

SOCRATES: Then as we are agreed thus far, let us ask ourselves whether a name rightly

imposed ought not to have the proper letters.

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the proper letters are those which are like the things?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Enough then of names which are rightly given. And in names which are

incorrectly given, the greater part may be supposed to be made up of proper and

similar letters, or there would be no likeness; but there will be likewise a part which is

improper and spoils the beauty and formation of the word: you would admit that?

CRATYLUS: There would be no use, Socrates, in my quarrelling with you, since I cannot

be satisfied that a name which is incorrectly given is a name at all.

SOCRATES: Do you admit a name to be the representation of a thing?

CRATYLUS: Yes, I do.

SOCRATES: But do you not allow that some nouns are primitive, and some derived?

CRATYLUS: Yes, I do.

SOCRATES: Then if you admit that primitive or first nouns are representations of things,

is there any better way of framing representations than by assimilating them to the

objects as much as you can; or do you prefer the notion of Hermogenes and of many

others, who say that names are conventional, and have a meaning to those who have

agreed about them, and who have previous knowledge of the things intended by them,

and that convention is the only principle; and whether you abide by our present

convention, or make a new and opposite one, according to which you call small great

and great small—that, they would say, makes no difference, if you are only agreed.

Which of these two notions do you prefer?

CRATYLUS: Representation by likeness, Socrates, is infinitely better than representation

by any chance sign.

SOCRATES: Very good: but if the name is to be like the thing, the letters out of which

the first names are composed must also be like things. Returning to the image of the

picture, I would ask, How could any one ever compose a picture which would be like

anything at all, if there were not pigments in nature which resembled the things

imitated, and out of which the picture is composed?

CRATYLUS: Impossible.

SOCRATES: No more could names ever resemble any actually existing thing, unless the

original elements of which they are compounded bore some degree of resemblance to

the objects of which the names are the imitation: And the original elements are letters?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Let me now invite you to consider what Hermogenes and I were saying

about sounds. Do you agree with me that the letter rho is expressive of rapidity, motion,

and hardness? Were we right or wrong in saying so?

CRATYLUS: I should say that you were right.

SOCRATES: And that lamda was expressive of smoothness, and softness, and the like?

CRATYLUS: There again you were right.

SOCRATES: And yet, as you are aware, that which is called by us sklerotes, is by the

Eretrians called skleroter.

CRATYLUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: But are the letters rho and sigma equivalents; and is there the same

significance to them in the termination rho, which there is to us in sigma, or is there no

significance to one of us?

CRATYLUS: Nay, surely there is a significance to both of us.

SOCRATES: In as far as they are like, or in as far as they are unlike?

CRATYLUS: In as far as they are like.

SOCRATES: Are they altogether alike?

CRATYLUS: Yes; for the purpose of expressing motion.

SOCRATES: And what do you say of the insertion of the lamda? for that is expressive not

of hardness but of softness.

CRATYLUS: Why, perhaps the letter lamda is wrongly inserted, Socrates, and should be

altered into rho, as you were saying to Hermogenes and in my opinion rightly, when you

spoke of adding and subtracting letters upon occasion.

SOCRATES: Good. But still the word is intelligible to both of us; when I say skleros (hard),

you know what I mean.

CRATYLUS: Yes, my dear friend, and the explanation of that is custom.

SOCRATES: And what is custom but convention? I utter a sound which I understand, and

you know that I understand the meaning of the sound: this is what you are saying?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And if when I speak you know my meaning, there is an indication given by

me to you?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: This indication of my meaning may proceed from unlike as well as from like,

for example in the lamda of sklerotes. But if this is true, then you have made a

convention with yourself, and the correctness of a name turns out to be convention,

since letters which are unlike are indicative equally with those which are like, if they are

sanctioned by custom and convention. And even supposing that you distinguish custom

from convention ever so much, still you must say that the signification of words is given

by custom and not by likeness, for custom may indicate by the unlike as well as by the

like. But as we are agreed thus far, Cratylus (for I shall assume that your silence gives

consent), then custom and convention must be supposed to contribute to the indication

of our thoughts; for suppose we take the instance of number, how can you ever

imagine, my good friend, that you will find names resembling every individual number,

unless you allow that which you term convention and agreement to have authority in

determining the correctness of names? I quite agree with you that words should as far

as possible resemble things; but I fear that this dragging in of resemblance, as

Hermogenes says, is a shabby thing, which has to be supplemented by the mechanical

aid of convention with a view to correctness; for I believe that if we could always, or

almost always, use likenesses, which are perfectly appropriate, this would be the most

perfect state of language; as the opposite is the most imperfect. But let me ask you,

what is the force of names, and what is the use of them?

CRATYLUS: The use of names, Socrates, as I should imagine, is to inform: the simple

truth is, that he who knows names knows also the things which are expressed by them.

SOCRATES: I suppose you mean to say, Cratylus, that as the name is, so also is the thing;

and that he who knows the one will also know the other, because they are similars, and

all similars fall under the same art or science; and therefore you would say that he who

knows names will also know things.

CRATYLUS: That is precisely what I mean.

SOCRATES: But let us consider what is the nature of this information about things which,

according to you, is given us by names. Is it the best sort of information? or is there any

other? What do you say?

CRATYLUS: I believe that to be both the only and the best sort of information about

them; there can be no other.

SOCRATES: But do you believe that in the discovery of them, he who discovers the

names discovers also the things; or is this only the method of instruction, and is there

some other method of enquiry and discovery.

CRATYLUS: I certainly believe that the methods of enquiry and discovery are of the same

nature as instruction.

SOCRATES: Well, but do you not see, Cratylus, that he who follows names in the search

after things, and analyses their meaning, is in great danger of being deceived?

CRATYLUS: How so?

SOCRATES: Why clearly he who first gave names gave them according to his conception

of the things which they signified—did he not?

CRATYLUS: True.

SOCRATES: And if his conception was erroneous, and he gave names according to his

conception, in what position shall we who are his followers find ourselves? Shall we not

be deceived by him?

CRATYLUS: But, Socrates, am I not right in thinking that he must surely have known; or

else, as I was saying, his names would not be names at all? And you have a clear proof

that he has not missed the truth, and the proof is—that he is perfectly consistent. Did

you ever observe in speaking that all the words which you utter have a common

character and purpose?

SOCRATES: But that, friend Cratylus, is no answer. For if he did begin in error, he may

have forced the remainder into agreement with the original error and with himself; there

would be nothing strange in this, any more than in geometrical diagrams, which have

often a slight and invisible flaw in the first part of the process, and are consistently

mistaken in the long deductions which follow. And this is the reason why every man

should expend his chief thought and attention on the consideration of his first

principles:—are they or are they not rightly laid down? and when he has duly sifted

them, all the rest will follow. Now I should be astonished to find that names are really

consistent. And here let us revert to our former discussion: Were we not saying that all

things are in motion and progress and flux, and that this idea of motion is expressed by

names? Do you not conceive that to be the meaning of them?

CRATYLUS: Yes; that is assuredly their meaning, and the true meaning.

SOCRATES: Let us revert to episteme (knowledge) and observe how ambiguous this

word is, seeming rather to signify stopping the soul at things than going round with

them; and therefore we should leave the beginning as at present, and not reject the

epsilon, but make an insertion of an iota instead of an epsilon (not pioteme, but

epiisteme). Take another example: bebaion (sure) is clearly the expression of station and

position, and not of motion. Again, the word istoria (enquiry) bears upon the face of it

the stopping (istanai) of the stream; and the word piston (faithful) certainly indicates

cessation of motion; then, again, mneme (memory), as any one may see, expresses rest

in the soul, and not motion. Moreover, words such as amartia and sumphora, which

have a bad sense, viewed in the light of their etymologies will be the same as sunesis

and episteme and other words which have a good sense (compare omartein, sunienai,

epesthai, sumpheresthai); and much the same may be said of amathia and akolasia, for

amathia may be explained as e ama theo iontos poreia, and akolasia as e akolouthia tois

pragmasin. Thus the names which in these instances we find to have the worst sense,

will turn out to be framed on the same principle as those which have the best. And any

one I believe who would take the trouble might find many other examples in which the

giver of names indicates, not that things are in motion or progress, but that they are at

rest; which is the opposite of motion.

CRATYLUS: Yes, Socrates, but observe; the greater number express motion.

SOCRATES: What of that, Cratylus? Are we to count them like votes? and is correctness

of names the voice of the majority? Are we to say of whichever sort there are most,

those are the true ones?

CRATYLUS: No; that is not reasonable.

SOCRATES: Certainly not. But let us have done with this question and proceed to

another, about which I should like to know whether you think with me. Were we not

lately acknowledging that the first givers of names in states, both Hellenic and

barbarous, were the legislators, and that the art which gave names was the art of the

legislator?

CRATYLUS: Quite true.

SOCRATES: Tell me, then, did the first legislators, who were the givers of the first names,

know or not know the things which they named?

CRATYLUS: They must have known, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Why, yes, friend Cratylus, they could hardly have been ignorant.

CRATYLUS: I should say not.

SOCRATES: Let us return to the point from which we digressed. You were saying, if you

remember, that he who gave names must have known the things which he named; are

you still of that opinion?

CRATYLUS: I am.

SOCRATES: And would you say that the giver of the first names had also a knowledge of

the things which he named?

CRATYLUS: I should.

SOCRATES: But how could he have learned or discovered things from names if the

primitive names were not yet given? For, if we are correct in our view, the only way of

learning and discovering things, is either to discover names for ourselves or to learn

them from others.

CRATYLUS: I think that there is a good deal in what you say, Socrates.

SOCRATES: But if things are only to be known through names, how can we suppose that

the givers of names had knowledge, or were legislators before there were names at all,

and therefore before they could have known them?

CRATYLUS: I believe, Socrates, the true account of the matter to be, that a power more

than human gave things their first names, and that the names which are thus given are

necessarily their true names.

SOCRATES: Then how came the giver of the names, if he was an inspired being or God,

to contradict himself? For were we not saying just now that he made some names

expressive of rest and others of motion? Were we mistaken?

CRATYLUS: But I suppose one of the two not to be names at all.

SOCRATES: And which, then, did he make, my good friend; those which are expressive of

rest, or those which are expressive of motion? This is a point which, as I said before,

cannot be determined by counting them.

CRATYLUS: No; not in that way, Socrates.

SOCRATES: But if this is a battle of names, some of them asserting that they are like the

truth, others contending that THEY are, how or by what criterion are we to decide

between them? For there are no other names to which appeal can be made, but

obviously recourse must be had to another standard which, without employing names,

will make clear which of the two are right; and this must be a standard which shows the

truth of things.

CRATYLUS: I agree.

SOCRATES: But if that is true, Cratylus, then I suppose that things may be known without

names?

CRATYLUS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: But how would you expect to know them? What other way can there be of

knowing them, except the true and natural way, through their affinities, when they are

akin to each other, and through themselves? For that which is other and different from

them must signify something other and different from them.

CRATYLUS: What you are saying is, I think, true.

SOCRATES: Well, but reflect; have we not several times acknowledged that names rightly

given are the likenesses and images of the things which they name?

CRATYLUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Let us suppose that to any extent you please you can learn things through

the medium of names, and suppose also that you can learn them from the things

themselves—which is likely to be the nobler and clearer way; to learn of the image,

whether the image and the truth of which the image is the expression have been rightly

conceived, or to learn of the truth whether the truth and the image of it have been duly

executed?

CRATYLUS: I should say that we must learn of the truth.

SOCRATES: How real existence is to be studied or discovered is, I suspect, beyond you

and me. But we may admit so much, that the knowledge of things is not to be derived

from names. No; they must be studied and investigated in themselves.

CRATYLUS: Clearly, Socrates.

SOCRATES: There is another point. I should not like us to be imposed upon by the

appearance of such a multitude of names, all tending in the same direction. I myself do

not deny that the givers of names did really give them under the idea that all things

were in motion and flux; which was their sincere but, I think, mistaken opinion. And

having fallen into a kind of whirlpool themselves, they are carried round, and want to

drag us in after them. There is a matter, master Cratylus, about which I often dream, and

should like to ask your opinion: Tell me, whether there is or is not any absolute beauty

or good, or any other absolute existence?

CRATYLUS: Certainly, Socrates, I think so.

SOCRATES: Then let us seek the true beauty: not asking whether a face is fair, or

anything of that sort, for all such things appear to be in a flux; but let us ask whether the

true beauty is not always beautiful.

CRATYLUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And can we rightly speak of a beauty which is always passing away, and is

first this and then that; must not the same thing be born and retire and vanish while the

word is in our mouths?

CRATYLUS: Undoubtedly.

SOCRATES: Then how can that be a real thing which is never in the same state? for

obviously things which are the same cannot change while they remain the same; and if

they are always the same and in the same state, and never depart from their original

form, they can never change or be moved.

CRATYLUS: Certainly they cannot.

SOCRATES: Nor yet can they be known by any one; for at the moment that the observer

approaches, then they become other and of another nature, so that you cannot get any

further in knowing their nature or state, for you cannot know that which has no state.

CRATYLUS: True.

SOCRATES: Nor can we reasonably say, Cratylus, that there is knowledge at all, if

everything is in a state of transition and there is nothing abiding; for knowledge too

cannot continue to be knowledge unless continuing always to abide and exist. But if the

very nature of knowledge changes, at the time when the change occurs there will be no

knowledge; and if the transition is always going on, there will always be no knowledge,

and, according to this view, there will be no one to know and nothing to be known: but

if that which knows and that which is known exists ever, and the beautiful and the good

and every other thing also exist, then I do not think that they can resemble a process or

flux, as we were just now supposing. Whether there is this eternal nature in things, or

whether the truth is what Heracleitus and his followers and many others say, is a

question hard to determine; and no man of sense will like to put himself or the

education of his mind in the power of names: neither will he so far trust names or the

givers of names as to be confident in any knowledge which condemns himself and other

existences to an unhealthy state of unreality; he will not believe that all things leak like a

pot, or imagine that the world is a man who has a running at the nose. This may be true,

Cratylus, but is also very likely to be untrue; and therefore I would not have you be too

easily persuaded of it. Reflect well and like a man, and do not easily accept such a

doctrine; for you are young and of an age to learn. And when you have found the truth,

come and tell me.

CRATYLUS: I will do as you say, though I can assure you, Socrates, that I have been

considering the matter already, and the result of a great deal of trouble and

consideration is that I incline to Heracleitus.

SOCRATES: Then, another day, my friend, when you come back, you shall give me a

lesson; but at present, go into the country, as you are intending, and Hermogenes shall

set you on your way.

CRATYLUS: Very good, Socrates; I hope, however, that you will continue to think about

these things yourself.

THE END

PHAEDO

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Phaedo, who is the narrator of the dialogue to Echecrates

of Phlius. Socrates, Apollodorus, Simmias, Cebes, Crito and an Attendant of the Prison.

SCENE: The Prison of Socrates.

PLACE OF THE NARRATION: Phlius.

ECHECRATES: Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with Socrates on the day when

he drank the poison?

PHAEDO: Yes, Echecrates, I was.

ECHECRATES: I should so like to hear about his death. What did he say in his last hours?

We were informed that he died by taking poison, but no one knew anything more; for

no Phliasian ever goes to Athens now, and it is a long time since any stranger from

Athens has found his way hither; so that we had no clear account.

PHAEDO: Did you not hear of the proceedings at the trial?

ECHECRATES: Yes; some one told us about the trial, and we could not understand why,

having been condemned, he should have been put to death, not at the time, but long

afterwards. What was the reason of this?

PHAEDO: An accident, Echecrates: the stern of the ship which the Athenians send to

Delos happened to have been crowned on the day before he was tried.

ECHECRATES: What is this ship?

PHAEDO: It is the ship in which, according to Athenian tradition, Theseus went to Crete

when he took with him the fourteen youths, and was the saviour of them and of himself.

And they were said to have vowed to Apollo at the time, that if they were saved they

would send a yearly mission to Delos. Now this custom still continues, and the whole

period of the voyage to and from Delos, beginning when the priest of Apollo crowns the

stern of the ship, is a holy season, during which the city is not allowed to be polluted by

public executions; and when the vessel is detained by contrary winds, the time spent in

going and returning is very considerable. As I was saying, the ship was crowned on the

day before the trial, and this was the reason why Socrates lay in prison and was not put

to death until long after he was condemned.

ECHECRATES: What was the manner of his death, Phaedo? What was said or done? And

which of his friends were with him? Or did the authorities forbid them to be present—so

that he had no friends near him when he died?

PHAEDO: No; there were several of them with him.

ECHECRATES: If you have nothing to do, I wish that you would tell me what passed, as

exactly as you can.

PHAEDO: I have nothing at all to do, and will try to gratify your wish. To be reminded of

Socrates is always the greatest delight to me, whether I speak myself or hear another

speak of him.

ECHECRATES: You will have listeners who are of the same mind with you, and I hope

that you will be as exact as you can.

PHAEDO: I had a singular feeling at being in his company. For I could hardly believe that

I was present at the death of a friend, and therefore I did not pity him, Echecrates; he

died so fearlessly, and his words and bearing were so noble and gracious, that to me he

appeared blessed. I thought that in going to the other world he could not be without a

divine call, and that he would be happy, if any man ever was, when he arrived there, and

therefore I did not pity him as might have seemed natural at such an hour. But I had not

the pleasure which I usually feel in philosophical discourse (for philosophy was the

theme of which we spoke). I was pleased, but in the pleasure there was also a strange

admixture of pain; for I reflected that he was soon to die, and this double feeling was

shared by us all; we were laughing and weeping by turns, especially the excitable

Apollodorus—you know the sort of man?

ECHECRATES: Yes.

PHAEDO: He was quite beside himself; and I and all of us were greatly moved.

ECHECRATES: Who were present?

PHAEDO: Of native Athenians there were, besides Apollodorus, Critobulus and his father

Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, Antisthenes; likewise Ctesippus of the deme of

Paeania, Menexenus, and some others; Plato, if I am not mistaken, was ill.

ECHECRATES: Were there any strangers?

PHAEDO: Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and Cebes, and Phaedondes; Euclid and

Terpison, who came from Megara.

ECHECRATES: And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus?

PHAEDO: No, they were said to be in Aegina.

ECHECRATES: Any one else?

PHAEDO: I think that these were nearly all.

ECHECRATES: Well, and what did you talk about?

PHAEDO: I will begin at the beginning, and endeavour to repeat the entire conversation.

On the previous days we had been in the habit of assembling early in the morning at the

court in which the trial took place, and which is not far from the prison. There we used

to wait talking with one another until the opening of the doors (for they were not

opened very early); then we went in and generally passed the day with Socrates. On the

last morning we assembled sooner than usual, having heard on the day before when we

quitted the prison in the evening that the sacred ship had come from Delos, and so we

arranged to meet very early at the accustomed place. On our arrival the jailer who

answered the door, instead of admitting us, came out and told us to stay until he called

us. 'For the Eleven,' he said, 'are now with Socrates; they are taking off his chains, and

giving orders that he is to die to-day.' He soon returned and said that we might come in.

On entering we found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippe, whom you

know, sitting by him, and holding his child in her arms. When she saw us she uttered a

cry and said, as women will: 'O Socrates, this is the last time that either you will converse

with your friends, or they with you.' Socrates turned to Crito and said: 'Crito, let some

one take her home.' Some of Crito's people accordingly led her away, crying out and

beating herself. And when she was gone, Socrates, sitting up on the couch, bent and

rubbed his leg, saying, as he was rubbing: How singular is the thing called pleasure, and

how curiously related to pain, which might be thought to be the opposite of it; for they

are never present to a man at the same instant, and yet he who pursues either is

generally compelled to take the other; their bodies are two, but they are joined by a

single head. And I cannot help thinking that if Aesop had remembered them, he would

have made a fable about God trying to reconcile their strife, and how, when he could

not, he fastened their heads together; and this is the reason why when one comes the

other follows, as I know by my own experience now, when after the pain in my leg which

was caused by the chain pleasure appears to succeed.

Upon this Cebes said: I am glad, Socrates, that you have mentioned the name of Aesop.

For it reminds me of a question which has been asked by many, and was asked of me

only the day before yesterday by Evenus the poet —he will be sure to ask it again, and

therefore if you would like me to have an answer ready for him, you may as well tell me

what I should say to him:—he wanted to know why you, who never before wrote a line

of poetry, now that you are in prison are turning Aesop's fables into verse, and also

composing that hymn in honour of Apollo.

Tell him, Cebes, he replied, what is the truth—that I had no idea of rivalling him or his

poems; to do so, as I knew, would be no easy task. But I wanted to see whether I could

purge away a scruple which I felt about the meaning of certain dreams. In the course of

my life I have often had intimations in dreams 'that I should compose music.' The same

dream came to me sometimes in one form, and sometimes in another, but always

saying the same or nearly the same words: 'Cultivate and make music,' said the dream.

And hitherto I had imagined that this was only intended to exhort and encourage me in

the study of philosophy, which has been the pursuit of my life, and is the noblest and

best of music. The dream was bidding me do what I was already doing, in the same way

that the competitor in a race is bidden by the spectators to run when he is already

running. But I was not certain of this, for the dream might have meant music in the

popular sense of the word, and being under sentence of death, and the festival giving

me a respite, I thought that it would be safer for me to satisfy the scruple, and, in

obedience to the dream, to compose a few verses before I departed. And first I made a

hymn in honour of the god of the festival, and then considering that a poet, if he is

really to be a poet, should not only put together words, but should invent stories, and

that I have no invention, I took some fables of Aesop, which I had ready at hand and

which I knew—they were the first I came upon—and turned them into verse. Tell this to

Evenus, Cebes, and bid him be of good cheer; say that I would have him come after me

if he be a wise man, and not tarry; and that to-day I am likely to be going, for the

Athenians say that I must.

Simmias said: What a message for such a man! having been a frequent companion of his

I should say that, as far as I know him, he will never take your advice unless he is

obliged.

Why, said Socrates,—is not Evenus a philosopher?

I think that he is, said Simmias.

Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to die, but he will

not take his own life, for that is held to be unlawful.

Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on to the ground, and

during the rest of the conversation he remained sitting.

Why do you say, enquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his own life, but that the

philosopher will be ready to follow the dying?

Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are the disciples of Philolaus,

never heard him speak of this?

Yes, but his language was obscure, Socrates.

My words, too, are only an echo; but there is no reason why I should not repeat what I

have heard: and indeed, as I am going to another place, it is very meet for me to be

thinking and talking of the nature of the pilgrimage which I am about to make. What

can I do better in the interval between this and the setting of the sun?

Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held to be unlawful? as I have certainly heard

Philolaus, about whom you were just now asking, affirm when he was staying with us at

Thebes: and there are others who say the same, although I have never understood what

was meant by any of them.

Do not lose heart, replied Socrates, and the day may come when you will understand. I

suppose that you wonder why, when other things which are evil may be good at certain

times and to certain persons, death is to be the only exception, and why, when a man is

better dead, he is not permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the hand of

another.

Very true, said Cebes, laughing gently and speaking in his native Boeotian.

I admit the appearance of inconsistency in what I am saying; but there may not be any

real inconsistency after all. There is a doctrine whispered in secret that man is a prisoner

who has no right to open the door and run away; this is a great mystery which I do not

quite understand. Yet I too believe that the gods are our guardians, and that we are a

possession of theirs. Do you not agree?

Yes, I quite agree, said Cebes.

And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example, took the liberty of

putting himself out of the way when you had given no intimation of your wish that he

should die, would you not be angry with him, and would you not punish him if you

could?

Certainly, replied Cebes.

Then, if we look at the matter thus, there may be reason in saying that a man should

wait, and not take his own life until God summons him, as he is now summoning me.

Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there seems to be truth in what you say. And yet how can you

reconcile this seemingly true belief that God is our guardian and we his possessions,

with the willingness to die which we were just now attributing to the philosopher? That

the wisest of men should be willing to leave a service in which they are ruled by the

gods who are the best of rulers, is not reasonable; for surely no wise man thinks that

when set at liberty he can take better care of himself than the gods take of him. A fool

may perhaps think so—he may argue that he had better run away from his master, not

considering that his duty is to remain to the end, and not to run away from the good,

and that there would be no sense in his running away. The wise man will want to be ever

with him who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse of what was just

now said; for upon this view the wise man should sorrow and the fool rejoice at passing

out of life.

The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, said he, turning to us, is a

man who is always inquiring, and is not so easily convinced by the first thing which he

hears.

And certainly, added Simmias, the objection which he is now making does appear to me

to have some force. For what can be the meaning of a truly wise man wanting to fly

away and lightly leave a master who is better than himself? And I rather imagine that

Cebes is referring to you; he thinks that you are too ready to leave us, and too ready to

leave the gods whom you acknowledge to be our good masters.

Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in what you say. And so you think that I ought to

answer your indictment as if I were in a court?

We should like you to do so, said Simmias.

Then I must try to make a more successful defence before you than I did when before

the judges. For I am quite ready to admit, Simmias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved

at death, if I were not persuaded in the first place that I am going to other gods who are

wise and good (of which I am as certain as I can be of any such matters), and secondly

(though I am not so sure of this last) to men departed, better than those whom I leave

behind; and therefore I do not grieve as I might have done, for I have good hope that

there is yet something remaining for the dead, and as has been said of old, some far

better thing for the good than for the evil.

But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you, Socrates? said Simmias. Will you

not impart them to us?—for they are a benefit in which we too are entitled to share.

Moreover, if you succeed in convincing us, that will be an answer to the charge against

yourself.

I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let me hear what Crito wants; he

has long been wishing to say something to me.

Only this, Socrates, replied Crito:—the attendant who is to give you the poison has been

telling me, and he wants me to tell you, that you are not to talk much, talking, he says,

increases heat, and this is apt to interfere with the action of the poison; persons who

excite themselves are sometimes obliged to take a second or even a third dose.

Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and be prepared to give the poison twice

or even thrice if necessary; that is all.

I knew quite well what you would say, replied Crito; but I was obliged to satisfy him.

Never mind him, he said.

And now, O my judges, I desire to prove to you that the real philosopher has reason to

be of good cheer when he is about to die, and that after death he may hope to obtain

the greatest good in the other world. And how this may be, Simmias and Cebes, I will

endeavour to explain. For I deem that the true votary of philosophy is likely to be

misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is always pursuing death and

dying; and if this be so, and he has had the desire of death all his life long, why when his

time comes should he repine at that which he has been always pursuing and desiring?

Simmias said laughingly: Though not in a laughing humour, you have made me laugh,

Socrates; for I cannot help thinking that the many when they hear your words will say

how truly you have described philosophers, and our people at home will likewise say

that the life which philosophers desire is in reality death, and that they have found them

out to be deserving of the death which they desire.

And they are right, Simmias, in thinking so, with the exception of the words 'they have

found them out'; for they have not found out either what is the nature of that death

which the true philosopher deserves, or how he deserves or desires death. But enough

of them:—let us discuss the matter among ourselves: Do we believe that there is such a

thing as death?

To be sure, replied Simmias.

Is it not the separation of soul and body? And to be dead is the completion of this;

when the soul exists in herself, and is released from the body and the body is released

from the soul, what is this but death?

Just so, he replied.

There is another question, which will probably throw light on our present inquiry if you

and I can agree about it:—Ought the philosopher to care about the pleasures—if they

are to be called pleasures—of eating and drinking?

Certainly not, answered Simmias.

And what about the pleasures of love—should he care for them?

By no means.

And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the body, for example, the

acquisition of costly raiment, or sandals, or other adornments of the body? Instead of

caring about them, does he not rather despise anything more than nature needs? What

do you say?

I should say that the true philosopher would despise them.

Would you not say that he is entirely concerned with the soul and not with the body?

He would like, as far as he can, to get away from the body and to turn to the soul.

Quite true.

In matters of this sort philosophers, above all other men, may be observed in every sort

of way to dissever the soul from the communion of the body.

Very true.

Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of opinion that to him who has no sense of

pleasure and no part in bodily pleasure, life is not worth having; and that he who is

indifferent about them is as good as dead.

That is also true.

What again shall we say of the actual acquirement of knowledge?—is the body, if

invited to share in the enquiry, a hinderer or a helper? I mean to say, have sight and

hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as the poets are always telling us, inaccurate

witnesses? and yet, if even they are inaccurate and indistinct, what is to be said of the

other senses?—for you will allow that they are the best of them?

Certainly, he replied.

Then when does the soul attain truth?—for in attempting to consider anything in

company with the body she is obviously deceived.

True.

Then must not true existence be revealed to her in thought, if at all?

Yes.

And thought is best when the mind is gathered into herself and none of these things

trouble her—neither sounds nor sights nor pain nor any pleasure,—when she takes

leave of the body, and has as little as possible to do with it, when she has no bodily

sense or desire, but is aspiring after true being?

Certainly.

And in this the philosopher dishonours the body; his soul runs away from his body and

desires to be alone and by herself?

That is true.

Well, but there is another thing, Simmias: Is there or is there not an absolute justice?

Assuredly there is.

And an absolute beauty and absolute good?

Of course.

But did you ever behold any of them with your eyes?

Certainly not.

Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily sense?—and I speak not of these

alone, but of absolute greatness, and health, and strength, and of the essence or true

nature of everything. Has the reality of them ever been perceived by you through the

bodily organs? or rather, is not the nearest approach to the knowledge of their several

natures made by him who so orders his intellectual vision as to have the most exact

conception of the essence of each thing which he considers?

Certainly.

And he attains to the purest knowledge of them who goes to each with the mind alone,

not introducing or intruding in the act of thought sight or any other sense together with

reason, but with the very light of the mind in her own clearness searches into the very

truth of each; he who has got rid, as far as he can, of eyes and ears and, so to speak, of

the whole body, these being in his opinion distracting elements which when they infect

the soul hinder her from acquiring truth and knowledge—who, if not he, is likely to

attain the knowledge of true being?

What you say has a wonderful truth in it, Socrates, replied Simmias.

And when real philosophers consider all these things, will they not be led to make a

reflection which they will express in words something like the following? 'Have we not

found,' they will say, 'a path of thought which seems to bring us and our argument to

the conclusion, that while we are in the body, and while the soul is infected with the

evils of the body, our desire will not be satisfied? and our desire is of the truth. For the

body is a source of endless trouble to us by reason of the mere requirement of food;

and is liable also to diseases which overtake and impede us in the search after true

being: it fills us full of loves, and lusts, and fears, and fancies of all kinds, and endless

foolery, and in fact, as men say, takes away from us the power of thinking at all. Whence

come wars, and fightings, and factions? whence but from the body and the lusts of the

body? wars are occasioned by the love of money, and money has to be acquired for the

sake and in the service of the body; and by reason of all these impediments we have no

time to give to philosophy; and, last and worst of all, even if we are at leisure and betake

ourselves to some speculation, the body is always breaking in upon us, causing turmoil

and confusion in our enquiries, and so amazing us that we are prevented from seeing

the truth. It has been proved to us by experience that if we would have pure knowledge

of anything we must be quit of the body—the soul in herself must behold things in

themselves: and then we shall attain the wisdom which we desire, and of which we say

that we are lovers, not while we live, but after death; for if while in company with the

body, the soul cannot have pure knowledge, one of two things follows—either

knowledge is not to be attained at all, or, if at all, after death. For then, and not till then,

the soul will be parted from the body and exist in herself alone. In this present life, I

reckon that we make the nearest approach to knowledge when we have the least

possible intercourse or communion with the body, and are not surfeited with the bodily

nature, but keep ourselves pure until the hour when God himself is pleased to release

us. And thus having got rid of the foolishness of the body we shall be pure and hold

converse with the pure, and know of ourselves the clear light everywhere, which is no

other than the light of truth.' For the impure are not permitted to approach the pure.

These are the sort of words, Simmias, which the true lovers of knowledge cannot help

saying to one another, and thinking. You would agree; would you not?

Undoubtedly, Socrates.

But, O my friend, if this is true, there is great reason to hope that, going whither I go,

when I have come to the end of my journey, I shall attain that which has been the

pursuit of my life. And therefore I go on my way rejoicing, and not I only, but every

other man who believes that his mind has been made ready and that he is in a manner

purified.

Certainly, replied Simmias.

And what is purification but the separation of the soul from the body, as I was saying

before; the habit of the soul gathering and collecting herself into herself from all sides

out of the body; the dwelling in her own place alone, as in another life, so also in this, as

far as she can;—the release of the soul from the chains of the body?

Very true, he said.

And this separation and release of the soul from the body is termed death?

To be sure, he said.

And the true philosophers, and they only, are ever seeking to release the soul. Is not the

separation and release of the soul from the body their especial study?

That is true.

And, as I was saying at first, there would be a ridiculous contradiction in men studying

to live as nearly as they can in a state of death, and yet repining when it comes upon

them.

Clearly.

And the true philosophers, Simmias, are always occupied in the practice of dying,

wherefore also to them least of all men is death terrible. Look at the matter thus:—if

they have been in every way the enemies of the body, and are wanting to be alone with

the soul, when this desire of theirs is granted, how inconsistent would they be if they

trembled and repined, instead of rejoicing at their departure to that place where, when

they arrive, they hope to gain that which in life they desired—and this was wisdom—and

at the same time to be rid of the company of their enemy. Many a man has been willing

to go to the world below animated by the hope of seeing there an earthly love, or wife,

or son, and conversing with them. And will he who is a true lover of wisdom, and is

strongly persuaded in like manner that only in the world below he can worthily enjoy

her, still repine at death? Will he not depart with joy? Surely he will, O my friend, if he be

a true philosopher. For he will have a firm conviction that there and there only, he can

find wisdom in her purity. And if this be true, he would be very absurd, as I was saying, if

he were afraid of death.

He would, indeed, replied Simmias.

And when you see a man who is repining at the approach of death, is not his reluctance

a sufficient proof that he is not a lover of wisdom, but a lover of the body, and probably

at the same time a lover of either money or power, or both?

Quite so, he replied.

And is not courage, Simmias, a quality which is specially characteristic of the

philosopher?

Certainly.

There is temperance again, which even by the vulgar is supposed to consist in the

control and regulation of the passions, and in the sense of superiority to them—is not

temperance a virtue belonging to those only who despise the body, and who pass their

lives in philosophy?

Most assuredly.

For the courage and temperance of other men, if you will consider them, are really a

contradiction.

How so?

Well, he said, you are aware that death is regarded by men in general as a great evil.

Very true, he said.

And do not courageous men face death because they are afraid of yet greater evils?

That is quite true.

Then all but the philosophers are courageous only from fear, and because they are

afraid; and yet that a man should be courageous from fear, and because he is a coward,

is surely a strange thing.

Very true.

And are not the temperate exactly in the same case? They are temperate because they

are intemperate—which might seem to be a contradiction, but is nevertheless the sort

of thing which happens with this foolish temperance. For there are pleasures which they

are afraid of losing; and in their desire to keep them, they abstain from some pleasures,

because they are overcome by others; and although to be conquered by pleasure is

called by men intemperance, to them the conquest of pleasure consists in being

conquered by pleasure. And that is what I mean by saying that, in a sense, they are

made temperate through intemperance.

Such appears to be the case.

Yet the exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain for another fear or pleasure or pain,

and of the greater for the less, as if they were coins, is not the exchange of virtue. O my

blessed Simmias, is there not one true coin for which all things ought to be

exchanged?—and that is wisdom; and only in exchange for this, and in company with

this, is anything truly bought or sold, whether courage or temperance or justice. And is

not all true virtue the companion of wisdom, no matter what fears or pleasures or other

similar goods or evils may or may not attend her? But the virtue which is made up of

these goods, when they are severed from wisdom and exchanged with one another, is a

shadow of virtue only, nor is there any freedom or health or truth in her; but in the true

exchange there is a purging away of all these things, and temperance, and justice, and

courage, and wisdom herself are the purgation of them. The founders of the mysteries

would appear to have had a real meaning, and were not talking nonsense when they

intimated in a figure long ago that he who passes unsanctified and uninitiated into the

world below will lie in a slough, but that he who arrives there after initiation and

purification will dwell with the gods. For 'many,' as they say in the mysteries, 'are the

thyrsus- bearers, but few are the mystics,'—meaning, as I interpret the words, 'the true

philosophers.' In the number of whom, during my whole life, I have been seeking,

according to my ability, to find a place;—whether I have sought in a right way or not,

and whether I have succeeded or not, I shall truly know in a little while, if God will, when

I myself arrive in the other world—such is my belief. And therefore I maintain that I am

right, Simmias and Cebes, in not grieving or repining at parting from you and my

masters in this world, for I believe that I shall equally find good masters and friends in

another world. But most men do not believe this saying; if then I succeed in convincing

you by my defence better than I did the Athenian judges, it will be well.

Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, in the greater part of what you say. But in what

concerns the soul, men are apt to be incredulous; they fear that when she has left the

body her place may be nowhere, and that on the very day of death she may perish and

come to an end—immediately on her release from the body, issuing forth dispersed like

smoke or air and in her flight vanishing away into nothingness. If she could only be

collected into herself after she has obtained release from the evils of which you are

speaking, there would be good reason to hope, Socrates, that what you say is true. But

surely it requires a great deal of argument and many proofs to show that when the man

is dead his soul yet exists, and has any force or intelligence.

True, Cebes, said Socrates; and shall I suggest that we converse a little of the

probabilities of these things?

I am sure, said Cebes, that I should greatly like to know your opinion about them.

I reckon, said Socrates, that no one who heard me now, not even if he were one of my

old enemies, the Comic poets, could accuse me of idle talking about matters in which I

have no concern:—If you please, then, we will proceed with the inquiry.

Suppose we consider the question whether the souls of men after death are or are not

in the world below. There comes into my mind an ancient doctrine which affirms that

they go from hence into the other world, and returning hither, are born again from the

dead. Now if it be true that the living come from the dead, then our souls must exist in

the other world, for if not, how could they have been born again? And this would be

conclusive, if there were any real evidence that the living are only born from the dead;

but if this is not so, then other arguments will have to be adduced.

Very true, replied Cebes.

Then let us consider the whole question, not in relation to man only, but in relation to

animals generally, and to plants, and to everything of which there is generation, and the

proof will be easier. Are not all things which have opposites generated out of their

opposites? I mean such things as good and evil, just and unjust—and there are

innumerable other opposites which are generated out of opposites. And I want to show

that in all opposites there is of necessity a similar alternation; I mean to say, for example,

that anything which becomes greater must become greater after being less.

True.

And that which becomes less must have been once greater and then have become less.

Yes.

And the weaker is generated from the stronger, and the swifter from the slower.

Very true.

And the worse is from the better, and the more just is from the more unjust.

Of course.

And is this true of all opposites? and are we convinced that all of them are generated

out of opposites?

Yes.

And in this universal opposition of all things, are there not also two intermediate

processes which are ever going on, from one to the other opposite, and back again;

where there is a greater and a less there is also an intermediate process of increase and

diminution, and that which grows is said to wax, and that which decays to wane?

Yes, he said.

And there are many other processes, such as division and composition, cooling and

heating, which equally involve a passage into and out of one another. And this

necessarily holds of all opposites, even though not always expressed in words—they are

really generated out of one another, and there is a passing or process from one to the

other of them?

Very true, he replied.

Well, and is there not an opposite of life, as sleep is the opposite of waking?

True, he said.

And what is it?

Death, he answered.

And these, if they are opposites, are generated the one from the other, and have there

their two intermediate processes also?

Of course.

Now, said Socrates, I will analyze one of the two pairs of opposites which I have

mentioned to you, and also its intermediate processes, and you shall analyze the other

to me. One of them I term sleep, the other waking. The state of sleep is opposed to the

state of waking, and out of sleeping waking is generated, and out of waking, sleeping;

and the process of generation is in the one case falling asleep, and in the other waking

up. Do you agree?

I entirely agree.

Then, suppose that you analyze life and death to me in the same manner. Is not death

opposed to life?

Yes.

And they are generated one from the other?

Yes.

What is generated from the living?

The dead.

And what from the dead?

I can only say in answer—the living.

Then the living, whether things or persons, Cebes, are generated from the dead?

That is clear, he replied.

Then the inference is that our souls exist in the world below?

That is true.

And one of the two processes or generations is visible—for surely the act of dying is

visible?

Surely, he said.

What then is to be the result? Shall we exclude the opposite process? And shall we

suppose nature to walk on one leg only? Must we not rather assign to death some

corresponding process of generation?

Certainly, he replied.

And what is that process?

Return to life.

And return to life, if there be such a thing, is the birth of the dead into the world of the

living?

Quite true.

Then here is a new way by which we arrive at the conclusion that the living come from

the dead, just as the dead come from the living; and this, if true, affords a most certain

proof that the souls of the dead exist in some place out of which they come again.

Yes, Socrates, he said; the conclusion seems to flow necessarily out of our previous

admissions.

And that these admissions were not unfair, Cebes, he said, may be shown, I think, as

follows: If generation were in a straight line only, and there were no compensation or

circle in nature, no turn or return of elements into their opposites, then you know that

all things would at last have the same form and pass into the same state, and there

would be no more generation of them.

What do you mean? he said.

A simple thing enough, which I will illustrate by the case of sleep, he replied. You know

that if there were no alternation of sleeping and waking, the tale of the sleeping

Endymion would in the end have no meaning, because all other things would be asleep,

too, and he would not be distinguishable from the rest. Or if there were composition

only, and no division of substances, then the chaos of Anaxagoras would come again.

And in like manner, my dear Cebes, if all things which partook of life were to die, and

after they were dead remained in the form of death, and did not come to life again, all

would at last die, and nothing would be alive—what other result could there be? For if

the living spring from any other things, and they too die, must not all things at last be

swallowed up in death? (But compare Republic.)

There is no escape, Socrates, said Cebes; and to me your argument seems to be

absolutely true.

Yes, he said, Cebes, it is and must be so, in my opinion; and we have not been deluded

in making these admissions; but I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living

again, and that the living spring from the dead, and that the souls of the dead are in

existence, and that the good souls have a better portion than the evil.

Cebes added: Your favorite doctrine, Socrates, that knowledge is simply recollection, if

true, also necessarily implies a previous time in which we have learned that which we

now recollect. But this would be impossible unless our soul had been in some place

before existing in the form of man; here then is another proof of the soul's immortality.

But tell me, Cebes, said Simmias, interposing, what arguments are urged in favour of this

doctrine of recollection. I am not very sure at the moment that I remember them.

One excellent proof, said Cebes, is afforded by questions. If you put a question to a

person in a right way, he will give a true answer of himself, but how could he do this

unless there were knowledge and right reason already in him? And this is most clearly

shown when he is taken to a diagram or to anything of that sort. (Compare Meno.)

But if, said Socrates, you are still incredulous, Simmias, I would ask you whether you may

not agree with me when you look at the matter in another way;—I mean, if you are still

incredulous as to whether knowledge is recollection.

Incredulous, I am not, said Simmias; but I want to have this doctrine of recollection

brought to my own recollection, and, from what Cebes has said, I am beginning to

recollect and be convinced; but I should still like to hear what you were going to say.

This is what I would say, he replied:—We should agree, if I am not mistaken, that what a

man recollects he must have known at some previous time.

Very true.

And what is the nature of this knowledge or recollection? I mean to ask, Whether a

person who, having seen or heard or in any way perceived anything, knows not only

that, but has a conception of something else which is the subject, not of the same but of

some other kind of knowledge, may not be fairly said to recollect that of which he has

the conception?

What do you mean?

I mean what I may illustrate by the following instance:—The knowledge of a lyre is not

the same as the knowledge of a man?

True.

And yet what is the feeling of lovers when they recognize a lyre, or a garment, or

anything else which the beloved has been in the habit of using? Do not they, from

knowing the lyre, form in the mind's eye an image of the youth to whom the lyre

belongs? And this is recollection. In like manner any one who sees Simmias may

remember Cebes; and there are endless examples of the same thing.

Endless, indeed, replied Simmias.

And recollection is most commonly a process of recovering that which has been already

forgotten through time and inattention.

Very true, he said.

Well; and may you not also from seeing the picture of a horse or a lyre remember a

man? and from the picture of Simmias, you may be led to remember Cebes?

True.

Or you may also be led to the recollection of Simmias himself?

Quite so.

And in all these cases, the recollection may be derived from things either like or unlike?

It may be.

And when the recollection is derived from like things, then another consideration is sure

to arise, which is—whether the likeness in any degree falls short or not of that which is

recollected?

Very true, he said.

And shall we proceed a step further, and affirm that there is such a thing as equality, not

of one piece of wood or stone with another, but that, over and above this, there is

absolute equality? Shall we say so?

Say so, yes, replied Simmias, and swear to it, with all the confidence in life.

And do we know the nature of this absolute essence?

To be sure, he said.

And whence did we obtain our knowledge? Did we not see equalities of material things,

such as pieces of wood and stones, and gather from them the idea of an equality which

is different from them? For you will acknowledge that there is a difference. Or look at

the matter in another way:—Do not the same pieces of wood or stone appear at one

time equal, and at another time unequal?

That is certain.

But are real equals ever unequal? or is the idea of equality the same as of inequality?

Impossible, Socrates.

Then these (so-called) equals are not the same with the idea of equality?

I should say, clearly not, Socrates.

And yet from these equals, although differing from the idea of equality, you conceived

and attained that idea?

Very true, he said.

Which might be like, or might be unlike them?

Yes.

But that makes no difference; whenever from seeing one thing you conceived another,

whether like or unlike, there must surely have been an act of recollection?

Very true.

But what would you say of equal portions of wood and stone, or other material equals?

and what is the impression produced by them? Are they equals in the same sense in

which absolute equality is equal? or do they fall short of this perfect equality in a

measure?

Yes, he said, in a very great measure too.

And must we not allow, that when I or any one, looking at any object, observes that the

thing which he sees aims at being some other thing, but falls short of, and cannot be,

that other thing, but is inferior, he who makes this observation must have had a

previous knowledge of that to which the other, although similar, was inferior?

Certainly.

And has not this been our own case in the matter of equals and of absolute equality?

Precisely.

Then we must have known equality previously to the time when we first saw the material

equals, and reflected that all these apparent equals strive to attain absolute equality, but

fall short of it?

Very true.

And we recognize also that this absolute equality has only been known, and can only be

known, through the medium of sight or touch, or of some other of the senses, which are

all alike in this respect?

Yes, Socrates, as far as the argument is concerned, one of them is the same as the other.

From the senses then is derived the knowledge that all sensible things aim at an

absolute equality of which they fall short?

Yes.

Then before we began to see or hear or perceive in any way, we must have had a

knowledge of absolute equality, or we could not have referred to that standard the

equals which are derived from the senses?—for to that they all aspire, and of that they

fall short.

No other inference can be drawn from the previous statements.

And did we not see and hear and have the use of our other senses as soon as we were

born?

Certainly.

Then we must have acquired the knowledge of equality at some previous time?

Yes.

That is to say, before we were born, I suppose?

True.

And if we acquired this knowledge before we were born, and were born having the use

of it, then we also knew before we were born and at the instant of birth not only the

equal or the greater or the less, but all other ideas; for we are not speaking only of

equality, but of beauty, goodness, justice, holiness, and of all which we stamp with the

name of essence in the dialectical process, both when we ask and when we answer

questions. Of all this we may certainly affirm that we acquired the knowledge before

birth?

We may.

But if, after having acquired, we have not forgotten what in each case we acquired, then

we must always have come into life having knowledge, and shall always continue to

know as long as life lasts—for knowing is the acquiring and retaining knowledge and

not forgetting. Is not forgetting, Simmias, just the losing of knowledge?

Quite true, Socrates.

But if the knowledge which we acquired before birth was lost by us at birth, and if

afterwards by the use of the senses we recovered what we previously knew, will not the

process which we call learning be a recovering of the knowledge which is natural to us,

and may not this be rightly termed recollection?

Very true.

So much is clear—that when we perceive something, either by the help of sight, or

hearing, or some other sense, from that perception we are able to obtain a notion of

some other thing like or unlike which is associated with it but has been forgotten.

Whence, as I was saying, one of two alternatives follows:—either we had this knowledge

at birth, and continued to know through life; or, after birth, those who are said to learn

only remember, and learning is simply recollection.

Yes, that is quite true, Socrates.

And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer? Had we the knowledge at our birth, or

did we recollect the things which we knew previously to our birth?

I cannot decide at the moment.

At any rate you can decide whether he who has knowledge will or will not be able to

render an account of his knowledge? What do you say?

Certainly, he will.

But do you think that every man is able to give an account of these very matters about

which we are speaking?

Would that they could, Socrates, but I rather fear that to-morrow, at this time, there will

no longer be any one alive who is able to give an account of them such as ought to be

given.

Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men know these things?

Certainly not.

They are in process of recollecting that which they learned before?

Certainly.

But when did our souls acquire this knowledge?—not since we were born as men?

Certainly not.

And therefore, previously?

Yes.

Then, Simmias, our souls must also have existed without bodies before they were in the

form of man, and must have had intelligence.

Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these notions are given us at the very

moment of birth; for this is the only time which remains.

Yes, my friend, but if so, when do we lose them? for they are not in us when we are

born—that is admitted. Do we lose them at the moment of receiving them, or if not at

what other time?

No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously talking nonsense.

Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are always repeating, there is an absolute

beauty, and goodness, and an absolute essence of all things; and if to this, which is now

discovered to have existed in our former state, we refer all our sensations, and with this

compare them, finding these ideas to be pre-existent and our inborn possession—then

our souls must have had a prior existence, but if not, there would be no force in the

argument? There is the same proof that these ideas must have existed before we were

born, as that our souls existed before we were born; and if not the ideas, then not the

souls.

Yes, Socrates; I am convinced that there is precisely the same necessity for the one as for

the other; and the argument retreats successfully to the position that the existence of

the soul before birth cannot be separated from the existence of the essence of which

you speak. For there is nothing which to my mind is so patent as that beauty, goodness,

and the other notions of which you were just now speaking, have a most real and

absolute existence; and I am satisfied with the proof.

Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied? for I must convince him too.

I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: although he is the most incredulous of

mortals, yet I believe that he is sufficiently convinced of the existence of the soul before

birth. But that after death the soul will continue to exist is not yet proven even to my

own satisfaction. I cannot get rid of the feeling of the many to which Cebes was

referring—the feeling that when the man dies the soul will be dispersed, and that this

may be the extinction of her. For admitting that she may have been born elsewhere, and

framed out of other elements, and was in existence before entering the human body,

why after having entered in and gone out again may she not herself be destroyed and

come to an end?

Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; about half of what was required has been proven; to wit,

that our souls existed before we were born:—that the soul will exist after death as well

as before birth is the other half of which the proof is still wanting, and has to be

supplied; when that is given the demonstration will be complete.

But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been already given, said Socrates, if you put the

two arguments together—I mean this and the former one, in which we admitted that

everything living is born of the dead. For if the soul exists before birth, and in coming to

life and being born can be born only from death and dying, must she not after death

continue to exist, since she has to be born again?—Surely the proof which you desire

has been already furnished. Still I suspect that you and Simmias would be glad to probe

the argument further. Like children, you are haunted with a fear that when the soul

leaves the body, the wind may really blow her away and scatter her; especially if a man

should happen to die in a great storm and not when the sky is calm.

Cebes answered with a smile: Then, Socrates, you must argue us out of our fears—and

yet, strictly speaking, they are not our fears, but there is a child within us to whom death

is a sort of hobgoblin; him too we must persuade not to be afraid when he is alone in

the dark.

Socrates said: Let the voice of the charmer be applied daily until you have charmed

away the fear.

And where shall we find a good charmer of our fears, Socrates, when you are gone?

Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has many good men, and there are

barbarous races not a few: seek for him among them all, far and wide, sparing neither

pains nor money; for there is no better way of spending your money. And you must seek

among yourselves too; for you will not find others better able to make the search.

The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. And now, if you please, let us return

to the point of the argument at which we digressed.

By all means, replied Socrates; what else should I please?

Very good.

Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves what that is which, as we imagine, is liable to

be scattered, and about which we fear? and what again is that about which we have no

fear? And then we may proceed further to enquire whether that which suffers dispersion

is or is not of the nature of soul—our hopes and fears as to our own souls will turn upon

the answers to these questions.

Very true, he said.

Now the compound or composite may be supposed to be naturally capable, as of being

compounded, so also of being dissolved; but that which is uncompounded, and that

only, must be, if anything is, indissoluble.

Yes; I should imagine so, said Cebes.

And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the same and unchanging, whereas the

compound is always changing and never the same.

I agree, he said.

Then now let us return to the previous discussion. Is that idea or essence, which in the

dialectical process we define as essence or true existence—whether essence of equality,

beauty, or anything else—are these essences, I say, liable at times to some degree of

change? or are they each of them always what they are, having the same simple selfexistent

and unchanging forms, not admitting of variation at all, or in any way, or at any

time?

They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes.

And what would you say of the many beautiful—whether men or horses or garments or

any other things which are named by the same names and may be called equal or

beautiful,—are they all unchanging and the same always, or quite the reverse? May they

not rather be described as almost always changing and hardly ever the same, either with

themselves or with one another?

The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a state of change.

And these you can touch and see and perceive with the senses, but the unchanging

things you can only perceive with the mind—they are invisible and are not seen?

That is very true, he said.

Well, then, added Socrates, let us suppose that there are two sorts of existences—one

seen, the other unseen.

Let us suppose them.

The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the unchanging?

That may be also supposed.

And, further, is not one part of us body, another part soul?

To be sure.

And to which class is the body more alike and akin?

Clearly to the seen—no one can doubt that.

And is the soul seen or not seen?

Not by man, Socrates.

And what we mean by 'seen' and 'not seen' is that which is or is not visible to the eye of

man?

Yes, to the eye of man.

And is the soul seen or not seen?

Not seen.

Unseen then?

Yes.

Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the body to the seen?

That follows necessarily, Socrates.

And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using the body as an instrument of

perception, that is to say, when using the sense of sight or hearing or some other sense

(for the meaning of perceiving through the body is perceiving through the senses)—

were we not saying that the soul too is then dragged by the body into the region of the

changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world spins round her, and she is like a

drunkard, when she touches change?

Very true.

But when returning into herself she reflects, then she passes into the other world, the

region of purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness, which are her

kindred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by herself and is not let or hindered;

then she ceases from her erring ways, and being in communion with the unchanging is

unchanging. And this state of the soul is called wisdom?

That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied.

And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and akin, as far as may be inferred from

this argument, as well as from the preceding one?

I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of every one who follows the argument, the soul

will be infinitely more like the unchangeable—even the most stupid person will not deny

that.

And the body is more like the changing?

Yes.

Yet once more consider the matter in another light: When the soul and the body are

united, then nature orders the soul to rule and govern, and the body to obey and serve.

Now which of these two functions is akin to the divine? and which to the mortal? Does

not the divine appear to you to be that which naturally orders and rules, and the mortal

to be that which is subject and servant?

True.

And which does the soul resemble?

The soul resembles the divine, and the body the mortal—there can be no doubt of that,

Socrates.

Then reflect, Cebes: of all which has been said is not this the conclusion?—that the soul

is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal, and intellectual, and uniform, and

indissoluble, and unchangeable; and that the body is in the very likeness of the human,

and mortal, and unintellectual, and multiform, and dissoluble, and changeable. Can this,

my dear Cebes, be denied?

It cannot.

But if it be true, then is not the body liable to speedy dissolution? and is not the soul

almost or altogether indissoluble?

Certainly.

And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the body, or visible part of him,

which is lying in the visible world, and is called a corpse, and would naturally be

dissolved and decomposed and dissipated, is not dissolved or decomposed at once, but

may remain for a for some time, nay even for a long time, if the constitution be sound at

the time of death, and the season of the year favourable? For the body when shrunk and

embalmed, as the manner is in Egypt, may remain almost entire through infinite ages;

and even in decay, there are still some portions, such as the bones and ligaments, which

are practically indestructible:—Do you agree?

Yes.

And is it likely that the soul, which is invisible, in passing to the place of the true Hades,

which like her is invisible, and pure, and noble, and on her way to the good and wise

God, whither, if God will, my soul is also soon to go,—that the soul, I repeat, if this be

her nature and origin, will be blown away and destroyed immediately on quitting the

body, as the many say? That can never be, my dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth rather

is, that the soul which is pure at departing and draws after her no bodily taint, having

never voluntarily during life had connection with the body, which she is ever avoiding,

herself gathered into herself;—and making such abstraction her perpetual study—which

means that she has been a true disciple of philosophy; and therefore has in fact been

always engaged in the practice of dying? For is not philosophy the practice of death?—

Certainly—

That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the invisible world—to the divine and

immortal and rational: thither arriving, she is secure of bliss and is released from the

error and folly of men, their fears and wild passions and all other human ills, and for ever

dwells, as they say of the initiated, in company with the gods (compare Apol.). Is not this

true, Cebes?

Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt.

But the soul which has been polluted, and is impure at the time of her departure, and is

the companion and servant of the body always, and is in love with and fascinated by the

body and by the desires and pleasures of the body, until she is led to believe that the

truth only exists in a bodily form, which a man may touch and see and taste, and use for

the purposes of his lusts,—the soul, I mean, accustomed to hate and fear and avoid the

intellectual principle, which to the bodily eye is dark and invisible, and can be attained

only by philosophy;—do you suppose that such a soul will depart pure and unalloyed?

Impossible, he replied.

She is held fast by the corporeal, which the continual association and constant care of

the body have wrought into her nature.

Very true.

And this corporeal element, my friend, is heavy and weighty and earthy, and is that

element of sight by which a soul is depressed and dragged down again into the visible

world, because she is afraid of the invisible and of the world below—prowling about

tombs and sepulchres, near which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of

souls which have not departed pure, but are cloyed with sight and therefore visible.

(Compare Milton, Comus:—

'But when lust, By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, But most by lewd and

lavish act of sin, Lets in defilement to the inward parts, The soul grows clotted by

contagion, Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose, The divine property of her first

being. Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp Oft seen in charnel vaults and

sepulchres, Lingering, and sitting by a new made grave, As loath to leave the body that

it lov'd, And linked itself by carnal sensuality To a degenerate and degraded state.')

That is very likely, Socrates.

Yes, that is very likely, Cebes; and these must be the souls, not of the good, but of the

evil, which are compelled to wander about such places in payment of the penalty of

their former evil way of life; and they continue to wander until through the craving after

the corporeal which never leaves them, they are imprisoned finally in another body. And

they may be supposed to find their prisons in the same natures which they have had in

their former lives.

What natures do you mean, Socrates?

What I mean is that men who have followed after gluttony, and wantonness, and

drunkenness, and have had no thought of avoiding them, would pass into asses and

animals of that sort. What do you think?

I think such an opinion to be exceedingly probable.

And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and tyranny, and violence, will pass

into wolves, or into hawks and kites;—whither else can we suppose them to go?

Yes, said Cebes; with such natures, beyond question.

And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to all of them places answering to their

several natures and propensities?

There is not, he said.

Some are happier than others; and the happiest both in themselves and in the place to

which they go are those who have practised the civil and social virtues which are called

temperance and justice, and are acquired by habit and attention without philosophy and

mind. (Compare Republic.)

Why are they the happiest?

Because they may be expected to pass into some gentle and social kind which is like

their own, such as bees or wasps or ants, or back again into the form of man, and just

and moderate men may be supposed to spring from them.

Very likely.

No one who has not studied philosophy and who is not entirely pure at the time of his

departure is allowed to enter the company of the Gods, but the lover of knowledge only.

And this is the reason, Simmias and Cebes, why the true votaries of philosophy abstain

from all fleshly lusts, and hold out against them and refuse to give themselves up to

them,—not because they fear poverty or the ruin of their families, like the lovers of

money, and the world in general; nor like the lovers of power and honour, because they

dread the dishonour or disgrace of evil deeds.

No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes.

No indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have any care of their own souls, and do

not merely live moulding and fashioning the body, say farewell to all this; they will not

walk in the ways of the blind: and when philosophy offers them purification and release

from evil, they feel that they ought not to resist her influence, and whither she leads

they turn and follow.

What do you mean, Socrates?

I will tell you, he said. The lovers of knowledge are conscious that the soul was simply

fastened and glued to the body—until philosophy received her, she could only view real

existence through the bars of a prison, not in and through herself; she was wallowing in

the mire of every sort of ignorance; and by reason of lust had become the principal

accomplice in her own captivity. This was her original state; and then, as I was saying,

and as the lovers of knowledge are well aware, philosophy, seeing how terrible was her

confinement, of which she was to herself the cause, received and gently comforted her

and sought to release her, pointing out that the eye and the ear and the other senses

are full of deception, and persuading her to retire from them, and abstain from all but

the necessary use of them, and be gathered up and collected into herself, bidding her

trust in herself and her own pure apprehension of pure existence, and to mistrust

whatever comes to her through other channels and is subject to variation; for such

things are visible and tangible, but what she sees in her own nature is intelligible and

invisible. And the soul of the true philosopher thinks that she ought not to resist this

deliverance, and therefore abstains from pleasures and desires and pains and fears, as

far as she is able; reflecting that when a man has great joys or sorrows or fears or

desires, he suffers from them, not merely the sort of evil which might be anticipated—as

for example, the loss of his health or property which he has sacrificed to his lusts—but

an evil greater far, which is the greatest and worst of all evils, and one of which he never

thinks.

What is it, Socrates? said Cebes.

The evil is that when the feeling of pleasure or pain is most intense, every soul of man

imagines the objects of this intense feeling to be then plainest and truest: but this is not

so, they are really the things of sight.

Very true.

And is not this the state in which the soul is most enthralled by the body?

How so?

Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail which nails and rivets the soul to

the body, until she becomes like the body, and believes that to be true which the body

affirms to be true; and from agreeing with the body and having the same delights she is

obliged to have the same habits and haunts, and is not likely ever to be pure at her

departure to the world below, but is always infected by the body; and so she sinks into

another body and there germinates and grows, and has therefore no part in the

communion of the divine and pure and simple.

Most true, Socrates, answered Cebes.

And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of knowledge are temperate and

brave; and not for the reason which the world gives.

Certainly not.

Certainly not! The soul of a philosopher will reason in quite another way; she will not ask

philosophy to release her in order that when released she may deliver herself up again

to the thraldom of pleasures and pains, doing a work only to be undone again, weaving

instead of unweaving her Penelope's web. But she will calm passion, and follow reason,

and dwell in the contemplation of her, beholding the true and divine (which is not

matter of opinion), and thence deriving nourishment. Thus she seeks to live while she

lives, and after death she hopes to go to her own kindred and to that which is like her,

and to be freed from human ills. Never fear, Simmias and Cebes, that a soul which has

been thus nurtured and has had these pursuits, will at her departure from the body be

scattered and blown away by the winds and be nowhere and nothing.

When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable time there was silence; he himself

appeared to be meditating, as most of us were, on what had been said; only Cebes and

Simmias spoke a few words to one another. And Socrates observing them asked what

they thought of the argument, and whether there was anything wanting? For, said he,

there are many points still open to suspicion and attack, if any one were disposed to sift

the matter thoroughly. Should you be considering some other matter I say no more, but

if you are still in doubt do not hesitate to say exactly what you think, and let us have

anything better which you can suggest; and if you think that I can be of any use, allow

me to help you.

Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did arise in our minds, and each of

us was urging and inciting the other to put the question which we wanted to have

answered and which neither of us liked to ask, fearing that our importunity might be

troublesome under present at such a time.

Socrates replied with a smile: O Simmias, what are you saying? I am not very likely to

persuade other men that I do not regard my present situation as a misfortune, if I

cannot even persuade you that I am no worse off now than at any other time in my life.

Will you not allow that I have as much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the swans? For

they, when they perceive that they must die, having sung all their life long, do then sing

more lustily than ever, rejoicing in the thought that they are about to go away to the

god whose ministers they are. But men, because they are themselves afraid of death,

slanderously affirm of the swans that they sing a lament at the last, not considering that

no bird sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not even the nightingale, nor the swallow,

nor yet the hoopoe; which are said indeed to tune a lay of sorrow, although I do not

believe this to be true of them any more than of the swans. But because they are sacred

to Apollo, they have the gift of prophecy, and anticipate the good things of another

world, wherefore they sing and rejoice in that day more than they ever did before. And I

too, believing myself to be the consecrated servant of the same God, and the fellowservant

of the swans, and thinking that I have received from my master gifts of prophecy

which are not inferior to theirs, would not go out of life less merrily than the swans.

Never mind then, if this be your only objection, but speak and ask anything which you

like, while the eleven magistrates of Athens allow.

Very good, Socrates, said Simmias; then I will tell you my difficulty, and Cebes will tell

you his. I feel myself, (and I daresay that you have the same feeling), how hard or rather

impossible is the attainment of any certainty about questions such as these in the

present life. And yet I should deem him a coward who did not prove what is said about

them to the uttermost, or whose heart failed him before he had examined them on

every side. For he should persevere until he has achieved one of two things: either he

should discover, or be taught the truth about them; or, if this be impossible, I would

have him take the best and most irrefragable of human theories, and let this be the raft

upon which he sails through life— not without risk, as I admit, if he cannot find some

word of God which will more surely and safely carry him. And now, as you bid me, I will

venture to question you, and then I shall not have to reproach myself hereafter with not

having said at the time what I think. For when I consider the matter, either alone or with

Cebes, the argument does certainly appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient.

Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you may be right, but I should like to know

in what respect the argument is insufficient.

In this respect, replied Simmias:—Suppose a person to use the same argument about

harmony and the lyre—might he not say that harmony is a thing invisible, incorporeal,

perfect, divine, existing in the lyre which is harmonized, but that the lyre and the strings

are matter and material, composite, earthy, and akin to mortality? And when some one

breaks the lyre, or cuts and rends the strings, then he who takes this view would argue

as you do, and on the same analogy, that the harmony survives and has not perished—

you cannot imagine, he would say, that the lyre without the strings, and the broken

strings themselves which are mortal remain, and yet that the harmony, which is of

heavenly and immortal nature and kindred, has perished—perished before the mortal.

The harmony must still be somewhere, and the wood and strings will decay before

anything can happen to that. The thought, Socrates, must have occurred to your own

mind that such is our conception of the soul; and that when the body is in a manner

strung and held together by the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry, then the soul is

the harmony or due proportionate admixture of them. But if so, whenever the strings of

the body are unduly loosened or overstrained through disease or other injury, then the

soul, though most divine, like other harmonies of music or of works of art, of course

perishes at once, although the material remains of the body may last for a considerable

time, until they are either decayed or burnt. And if any one maintains that the soul,

being the harmony of the elements of the body, is first to perish in that which is called

death, how shall we answer him?

Socrates looked fixedly at us as his manner was, and said with a smile: Simmias has

reason on his side; and why does not some one of you who is better able than myself

answer him? for there is force in his attack upon me. But perhaps, before we answer him,

we had better also hear what Cebes has to say that we may gain time for reflection, and

when they have both spoken, we may either assent to them, if there is truth in what they

say, or if not, we will maintain our position. Please to tell me then, Cebes, he said, what

was the difficulty which troubled you?

Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the argument is where it was, and open to

the same objections which were urged before; for I am ready to admit that the existence

of the soul before entering into the bodily form has been very ingeniously, and, if I may

say so, quite sufficiently proven; but the existence of the soul after death is still, in my

judgment, unproven. Now my objection is not the same as that of Simmias; for I am not

disposed to deny that the soul is stronger and more lasting than the body, being of

opinion that in all such respects the soul very far excels the body. Well, then, says the

argument to me, why do you remain unconvinced?—When you see that the weaker

continues in existence after the man is dead, will you not admit that the more lasting

must also survive during the same period of time? Now I will ask you to consider

whether the objection, which, like Simmias, I will express in a figure, is of any weight. The

analogy which I will adduce is that of an old weaver, who dies, and after his death

somebody says:—He is not dead, he must be alive;—see, there is the coat which he

himself wove and wore, and which remains whole and undecayed. And then he

proceeds to ask of some one who is incredulous, whether a man lasts longer, or the coat

which is in use and wear; and when he is answered that a man lasts far longer, thinks

that he has thus certainly demonstrated the survival of the man, who is the more lasting,

because the less lasting remains. But that, Simmias, as I would beg you to remark, is a

mistake; any one can see that he who talks thus is talking nonsense. For the truth is, that

the weaver aforesaid, having woven and worn many such coats, outlived several of

them, and was outlived by the last; but a man is not therefore proved to be slighter and

weaker than a coat. Now the relation of the body to the soul may be expressed in a

similar figure; and any one may very fairly say in like manner that the soul is lasting, and

the body weak and shortlived in comparison. He may argue in like manner that every

soul wears out many bodies, especially if a man live many years. While he is alive the

body deliquesces and decays, and the soul always weaves another garment and repairs

the waste. But of course, whenever the soul perishes, she must have on her last garment,

and this will survive her; and then at length, when the soul is dead, the body will show

its native weakness, and quickly decompose and pass away. I would therefore rather not

rely on the argument from superior strength to prove the continued existence of the

soul after death. For granting even more than you affirm to be possible, and

acknowledging not only that the soul existed before birth, but also that the souls of

some exist, and will continue to exist after death, and will be born and die again and

again, and that there is a natural strength in the soul which will hold out and be born

many times—nevertheless, we may be still inclined to think that she will weary in the

labours of successive births, and may at last succumb in one of her deaths and utterly

perish; and this death and dissolution of the body which brings destruction to the soul

may be unknown to any of us, for no one of us can have had any experience of it: and if

so, then I maintain that he who is confident about death has but a foolish confidence,

unless he is able to prove that the soul is altogether immortal and imperishable. But if

he cannot prove the soul's immortality, he who is about to die will always have reason to

fear that when the body is disunited, the soul also may utterly perish.

All of us, as we afterwards remarked to one another, had an unpleasant feeling at

hearing what they said. When we had been so firmly convinced before, now to have our

faith shaken seemed to introduce a confusion and uncertainty, not only into the

previous argument, but into any future one; either we were incapable of forming a

judgment, or there were no grounds of belief.

ECHECRATES: There I feel with you—by heaven I do, Phaedo, and when you were

speaking, I was beginning to ask myself the same question: What argument can I ever

trust again? For what could be more convincing than the argument of Socrates, which

has now fallen into discredit? That the soul is a harmony is a doctrine which has always

had a wonderful attraction for me, and, when mentioned, came back to me at once, as

my own original conviction. And now I must begin again and find another argument

which will assure me that when the man is dead the soul survives. Tell me, I implore you,

how did Socrates proceed? Did he appear to share the unpleasant feeling which you

mention? or did he calmly meet the attack? And did he answer forcibly or feebly?

Narrate what passed as exactly as you can.

PHAEDO: Often, Echecrates, I have wondered at Socrates, but never more than on that

occasion. That he should be able to answer was nothing, but what astonished me was,

first, the gentle and pleasant and approving manner in which he received the words of

the young men, and then his quick sense of the wound which had been inflicted by the

argument, and the readiness with which he healed it. He might be compared to a

general rallying his defeated and broken army, urging them to accompany him and

return to the field of argument.

ECHECRATES: What followed?

PHAEDO: You shall hear, for I was close to him on his right hand, seated on a sort of

stool, and he on a couch which was a good deal higher. He stroked my head, and

pressed the hair upon my neck—he had a way of playing with my hair; and then he said:

To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose that these fair locks of yours will be severed.

Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied.

Not so, if you will take my advice.

What shall I do with them? I said.

To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argument dies and we cannot bring it to

life again, you and I will both shave our locks; and if I were you, and the argument got

away from me, and I could not hold my ground against Simmias and Cebes, I would

myself take an oath, like the Argives, not to wear hair any more until I had renewed the

conflict and defeated them.

Yes, I said, but Heracles himself is said not to be a match for two.

Summon me then, he said, and I will be your Iolaus until the sun goes down.

I summon you rather, I rejoined, not as Heracles summoning Iolaus, but as Iolaus might

summon Heracles.

That will do as well, he said. But first let us take care that we avoid a danger.

Of what nature? I said.

Lest we become misologists, he replied, no worse thing can happen to a man than this.

For as there are misanthropists or haters of men, there are also misologists or haters of

ideas, and both spring from the same cause, which is ignorance of the world.

Misanthropy arises out of the too great confidence of inexperience;—you trust a man

and think him altogether true and sound and faithful, and then in a little while he turns

out to be false and knavish; and then another and another, and when this has happened

several times to a man, especially when it happens among those whom he deems to be

his own most trusted and familiar friends, and he has often quarreled with them, he at

last hates all men, and believes that no one has any good in him at all. You must have

observed this trait of character?

I have.

And is not the feeling discreditable? Is it not obvious that such an one having to deal

with other men, was clearly without any experience of human nature; for experience

would have taught him the true state of the case, that few are the good and few the evil,

and that the great majority are in the interval between them.

What do you mean? I said.

I mean, he replied, as you might say of the very large and very small, that nothing is

more uncommon than a very large or very small man; and this applies generally to all

extremes, whether of great and small, or swift and slow, or fair and foul, or black and

white: and whether the instances you select be men or dogs or anything else, few are

the extremes, but many are in the mean between them. Did you never observe this?

Yes, I said, I have.

And do you not imagine, he said, that if there were a competition in evil, the worst

would be found to be very few?

Yes, that is very likely, I said.

Yes, that is very likely, he replied; although in this respect arguments are unlike men—

there I was led on by you to say more than I had intended; but the point of comparison

was, that when a simple man who has no skill in dialectics believes an argument to be

true which he afterwards imagines to be false, whether really false or not, and then

another and another, he has no longer any faith left, and great disputers, as you know,

come to think at last that they have grown to be the wisest of mankind; for they alone

perceive the utter unsoundness and instability of all arguments, or indeed, of all things,

which, like the currents in the Euripus, are going up and down in never-ceasing ebb and

flow.

That is quite true, I said.

Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and how melancholy, if there be such a thing as truth or

certainty or possibility of knowledge—that a man should have lighted upon some

argument or other which at first seemed true and then turned out to be false, and

instead of blaming himself and his own want of wit, because he is annoyed, should at

last be too glad to transfer the blame from himself to arguments in general: and for ever

afterwards should hate and revile them, and lose truth and the knowledge of realities.

Yes, indeed, I said; that is very melancholy.

Let us then, in the first place, he said, be careful of allowing or of admitting into our

souls the notion that there is no health or soundness in any arguments at all. Rather say

that we have not yet attained to soundness in ourselves, and that we must struggle

manfully and do our best to gain health of mind—you and all other men having regard

to the whole of your future life, and I myself in the prospect of death. For at this

moment I am sensible that I have not the temper of a philosopher; like the vulgar, I am

only a partisan. Now the partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about

the rights of the question, but is anxious only to convince his hearers of his own

assertions. And the difference between him and me at the present moment is merely

this—that whereas he seeks to convince his hearers that what he says is true, I am rather

seeking to convince myself; to convince my hearers is a secondary matter with me. And

do but see how much I gain by the argument. For if what I say is true, then I do well to

be persuaded of the truth, but if there be nothing after death, still, during the short time

that remains, I shall not distress my friends with lamentations, and my ignorance will not

last, but will die with me, and therefore no harm will be done. This is the state of mind,

Simmias and Cebes, in which I approach the argument. And I would ask you to be

thinking of the truth and not of Socrates: agree with me, if I seem to you to be speaking

the truth; or if not, withstand me might and main, that I may not deceive you as well as

myself in my enthusiasm, and like the bee, leave my sting in you before I die.

And now let us proceed, he said. And first of all let me be sure that I have in my mind

what you were saying. Simmias, if I remember rightly, has fears and misgivings whether

the soul, although a fairer and diviner thing than the body, being as she is in the form of

harmony, may not perish first. On the other hand, Cebes appeared to grant that the soul

was more lasting than the body, but he said that no one could know whether the soul,

after having worn out many bodies, might not perish herself and leave her last body

behind her; and that this is death, which is the destruction not of the body but of the

soul, for in the body the work of destruction is ever going on. Are not these, Simmias

and Cebes, the points which we have to consider?

They both agreed to this statement of them.

He proceeded: And did you deny the force of the whole preceding argument, or of a

part only?

Of a part only, they replied.

And what did you think, he said, of that part of the argument in which we said that

knowledge was recollection, and hence inferred that the soul must have previously

existed somewhere else before she was enclosed in the body?

Cebes said that he had been wonderfully impressed by that part of the argument, and

that his conviction remained absolutely unshaken. Simmias agreed, and added that he

himself could hardly imagine the possibility of his ever thinking differently.

But, rejoined Socrates, you will have to think differently, my Theban friend, if you still

maintain that harmony is a compound, and that the soul is a harmony which is made

out of strings set in the frame of the body; for you will surely never allow yourself to say

that a harmony is prior to the elements which compose it.

Never, Socrates.

But do you not see that this is what you imply when you say that the soul existed before

she took the form and body of man, and was made up of elements which as yet had no

existence? For harmony is not like the soul, as you suppose; but first the lyre, and the

strings, and the sounds exist in a state of discord, and then harmony is made last of all,

and perishes first. And how can such a notion of the soul as this agree with the other?

Not at all, replied Simmias.

And yet, he said, there surely ought to be harmony in a discourse of which harmony is

the theme.

There ought, replied Simmias.

But there is no harmony, he said, in the two propositions that knowledge is recollection,

and that the soul is a harmony. Which of them will you retain?

I think, he replied, that I have a much stronger faith, Socrates, in the first of the two,

which has been fully demonstrated to me, than in the latter, which has not been

demonstrated at all, but rests only on probable and plausible grounds; and is therefore

believed by the many. I know too well that these arguments from probabilities are

impostors, and unless great caution is observed in the use of them, they are apt to be

deceptive —in geometry, and in other things too. But the doctrine of knowledge and

recollection has been proven to me on trustworthy grounds; and the proof was that the

soul must have existed before she came into the body, because to her belongs the

essence of which the very name implies existence. Having, as I am convinced, rightly

accepted this conclusion, and on sufficient grounds, I must, as I suppose, cease to argue

or allow others to argue that the soul is a harmony.

Let me put the matter, Simmias, he said, in another point of view: Do you imagine that a

harmony or any other composition can be in a state other than that of the elements, out

of which it is compounded?

Certainly not.

Or do or suffer anything other than they do or suffer?

He agreed.

Then a harmony does not, properly speaking, lead the parts or elements which make up

the harmony, but only follows them.

He assented.

For harmony cannot possibly have any motion, or sound, or other quality which is

opposed to its parts.

That would be impossible, he replied.

And does not the nature of every harmony depend upon the manner in which the

elements are harmonized?

I do not understand you, he said.

I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees, and is more of a harmony, and more

completely a harmony, when more truly and fully harmonized, to any extent which is

possible; and less of a harmony, and less completely a harmony, when less truly and

fully harmonized.

True.

But does the soul admit of degrees? or is one soul in the very least degree more or less,

or more or less completely, a soul than another?

Not in the least.

Yet surely of two souls, one is said to have intelligence and virtue, and to be good, and

the other to have folly and vice, and to be an evil soul: and this is said truly?

Yes, truly.

But what will those who maintain the soul to be a harmony say of this presence of virtue

and vice in the soul?—will they say that here is another harmony, and another discord,

and that the virtuous soul is harmonized, and herself being a harmony has another

harmony within her, and that the vicious soul is inharmonical and has no harmony

within her?

I cannot tell, replied Simmias; but I suppose that something of the sort would be

asserted by those who say that the soul is a harmony.

And we have already admitted that no soul is more a soul than another; which is

equivalent to admitting that harmony is not more or less harmony, or more or less

completely a harmony?

Quite true.

And that which is not more or less a harmony is not more or less harmonized?

True.

And that which is not more or less harmonized cannot have more or less of harmony,

but only an equal harmony?

Yes, an equal harmony.

Then one soul not being more or less absolutely a soul than another, is not more or less

harmonized?

Exactly.

And therefore has neither more nor less of discord, nor yet of harmony?

She has not.

And having neither more nor less of harmony or of discord, one soul has no more vice

or virtue than another, if vice be discord and virtue harmony?

Not at all more.

Or speaking more correctly, Simmias, the soul, if she is a harmony, will never have any

vice; because a harmony, being absolutely a harmony, has no part in the inharmonical.

No.

And therefore a soul which is absolutely a soul has no vice?

How can she have, if the previous argument holds?

Then, if all souls are equally by their nature souls, all souls of all living creatures will be

equally good?

I agree with you, Socrates, he said.

And can all this be true, think you? he said; for these are the consequences which seem

to follow from the assumption that the soul is a harmony?

It cannot be true.

Once more, he said, what ruler is there of the elements of human nature other than the

soul, and especially the wise soul? Do you know of any?

Indeed, I do not.

And is the soul in agreement with the affections of the body? or is she at variance with

them? For example, when the body is hot and thirsty, does not the soul incline us

against drinking? and when the body is hungry, against eating? And this is only one

instance out of ten thousand of the opposition of the soul to the things of the body.

Very true.

But we have already acknowledged that the soul, being a harmony, can never utter a

note at variance with the tensions and relaxations and vibrations and other affections of

the strings out of which she is composed; she can only follow, she cannot lead them?

It must be so, he replied.

And yet do we not now discover the soul to be doing the exact opposite— leading the

elements of which she is believed to be composed; almost always opposing and

coercing them in all sorts of ways throughout life, sometimes more violently with the

pains of medicine and gymnastic; then again more gently; now threatening, now

admonishing the desires, passions, fears, as if talking to a thing which is not herself, as

Homer in the Odyssee represents Odysseus doing in the words—

'He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart: Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou

endured!'

Do you think that Homer wrote this under the idea that the soul is a harmony capable of

being led by the affections of the body, and not rather of a nature which should lead

and master them—herself a far diviner thing than any harmony?

Yes, Socrates, I quite think so.

Then, my friend, we can never be right in saying that the soul is a harmony, for we

should contradict the divine Homer, and contradict ourselves.

True, he said.

Thus much, said Socrates, of Harmonia, your Theban goddess, who has graciously

yielded to us; but what shall I say, Cebes, to her husband Cadmus, and how shall I make

peace with him?

I think that you will discover a way of propitiating him, said Cebes; I am sure that you

have put the argument with Harmonia in a manner that I could never have expected. For

when Simmias was mentioning his difficulty, I quite imagined that no answer could be

given to him, and therefore I was surprised at finding that his argument could not

sustain the first onset of yours, and not impossibly the other, whom you call Cadmus,

may share a similar fate.

Nay, my good friend, said Socrates, let us not boast, lest some evil eye should put to

flight the word which I am about to speak. That, however, may be left in the hands of

those above, while I draw near in Homeric fashion, and try the mettle of your words.

Here lies the point:—You want to have it proven to you that the soul is imperishable and

immortal, and the philosopher who is confident in death appears to you to have but a

vain and foolish confidence, if he believes that he will fare better in the world below

than one who has led another sort of life, unless he can prove this; and you say that the

demonstration of the strength and divinity of the soul, and of her existence prior to our

becoming men, does not necessarily imply her immortality. Admitting the soul to be

longlived, and to have known and done much in a former state, still she is not on that

account immortal; and her entrance into the human form may be a sort of disease which

is the beginning of dissolution, and may at last, after the toils of life are over, end in that

which is called death. And whether the soul enters into the body once only or many

times, does not, as you say, make any difference in the fears of individuals. For any man,

who is not devoid of sense, must fear, if he has no knowledge and can give no account

of the soul's immortality. This, or something like this, I suspect to be your notion, Cebes;

and I designedly recur to it in order that nothing may escape us, and that you may, if

you wish, add or subtract anything.

But, said Cebes, as far as I see at present, I have nothing to add or subtract: I mean what

you say that I mean.

Socrates paused awhile, and seemed to be absorbed in reflection. At length he said: You

are raising a tremendous question, Cebes, involving the whole nature of generation and

corruption, about which, if you like, I will give you my own experience; and if anything

which I say is likely to avail towards the solution of your difficulty you may make use of

it.

I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what you have to say.

Then I will tell you, said Socrates. When I was young, Cebes, I had a prodigious desire to

know that department of philosophy which is called the investigation of nature; to know

the causes of things, and why a thing is and is created or destroyed appeared to me to

be a lofty profession; and I was always agitating myself with the consideration of

questions such as these:—Is the growth of animals the result of some decay which the

hot and cold principle contracts, as some have said? Is the blood the element with which

we think, or the air, or the fire? or perhaps nothing of the kind— but the brain may be

the originating power of the perceptions of hearing and sight and smell, and memory

and opinion may come from them, and science may be based on memory and opinion

when they have attained fixity. And then I went on to examine the corruption of them,

and then to the things of heaven and earth, and at last I concluded myself to be utterly

and absolutely incapable of these enquiries, as I will satisfactorily prove to you. For I was

fascinated by them to such a degree that my eyes grew blind to things which I had

seemed to myself, and also to others, to know quite well; I forgot what I had before

thought self-evident truths; e.g. such a fact as that the growth of man is the result of

eating and drinking; for when by the digestion of food flesh is added to flesh and bone

to bone, and whenever there is an aggregation of congenial elements, the lesser bulk

becomes larger and the small man great. Was not that a reasonable notion?

Yes, said Cebes, I think so.

Well; but let me tell you something more. There was a time when I thought that I

understood the meaning of greater and less pretty well; and when I saw a great man

standing by a little one, I fancied that one was taller than the other by a head; or one

horse would appear to be greater than another horse: and still more clearly did I seem

to perceive that ten is two more than eight, and that two cubits are more than one,

because two is the double of one.

And what is now your notion of such matters? said Cebes.

I should be far enough from imagining, he replied, that I knew the cause of any of them,

by heaven I should; for I cannot satisfy myself that, when one is added to one, the one

to which the addition is made becomes two, or that the two units added together make

two by reason of the addition. I cannot understand how, when separated from the other,

each of them was one and not two, and now, when they are brought together, the mere

juxtaposition or meeting of them should be the cause of their becoming two: neither

can I understand how the division of one is the way to make two; for then a different

cause would produce the same effect,—as in the former instance the addition and

juxtaposition of one to one was the cause of two, in this the separation and subtraction

of one from the other would be the cause. Nor am I any longer satisfied that I

understand the reason why one or anything else is either generated or destroyed or is at

all, but I have in my mind some confused notion of a new method, and can never admit

the other.

Then I heard some one reading, as he said, from a book of Anaxagoras, that mind was

the disposer and cause of all, and I was delighted at this notion, which appeared quite

admirable, and I said to myself: If mind is the disposer, mind will dispose all for the best,

and put each particular in the best place; and I argued that if any one desired to find out

the cause of the generation or destruction or existence of anything, he must find out

what state of being or doing or suffering was best for that thing, and therefore a man

had only to consider the best for himself and others, and then he would also know the

worse, since the same science comprehended both. And I rejoiced to think that I had

found in Anaxagoras a teacher of the causes of existence such as I desired, and I

imagined that he would tell me first whether the earth is flat or round; and whichever

was true, he would proceed to explain the cause and the necessity of this being so, and

then he would teach me the nature of the best and show that this was best; and if he

said that the earth was in the centre, he would further explain that this position was the

best, and I should be satisfied with the explanation given, and not want any other sort of

cause. And I thought that I would then go on and ask him about the sun and moon and

stars, and that he would explain to me their comparative swiftness, and their returnings

and various states, active and passive, and how all of them were for the best. For I could

not imagine that when he spoke of mind as the disposer of them, he would give any

other account of their being as they are, except that this was best; and I thought that

when he had explained to me in detail the cause of each and the cause of all, he would

go on to explain to me what was best for each and what was good for all. These hopes I

would not have sold for a large sum of money, and I seized the books and read them as

fast as I could in my eagerness to know the better and the worse.

What expectations I had formed, and how grievously was I disappointed! As I

proceeded, I found my philosopher altogether forsaking mind or any other principle of

order, but having recourse to air, and ether, and water, and other eccentricities. I might

compare him to a person who began by maintaining generally that mind is the cause of

the actions of Socrates, but who, when he endeavoured to explain the causes of my

several actions in detail, went on to show that I sit here because my body is made up of

bones and muscles; and the bones, as he would say, are hard and have joints which

divide them, and the muscles are elastic, and they cover the bones, which have also a

covering or environment of flesh and skin which contains them; and as the bones are

lifted at their joints by the contraction or relaxation of the muscles, I am able to bend

my limbs, and this is why I am sitting here in a curved posture—that is what he would

say, and he would have a similar explanation of my talking to you, which he would

attribute to sound, and air, and hearing, and he would assign ten thousand other causes

of the same sort, forgetting to mention the true cause, which is, that the Athenians have

thought fit to condemn me, and accordingly I have thought it better and more right to

remain here and undergo my sentence; for I am inclined to think that these muscles and

bones of mine would have gone off long ago to Megara or Boeotia—by the dog they

would, if they had been moved only by their own idea of what was best, and if I had not

chosen the better and nobler part, instead of playing truant and running away, of

enduring any punishment which the state inflicts. There is surely a strange confusion of

causes and conditions in all this. It may be said, indeed, that without bones and muscles

and the other parts of the body I cannot execute my purposes. But to say that I do as I

do because of them, and that this is the way in which mind acts, and not from the

choice of the best, is a very careless and idle mode of speaking. I wonder that they

cannot distinguish the cause from the condition, which the many, feeling about in the

dark, are always mistaking and misnaming. And thus one man makes a vortex all round

and steadies the earth by the heaven; another gives the air as a support to the earth,

which is a sort of broad trough. Any power which in arranging them as they are arranges

them for the best never enters into their minds; and instead of finding any superior

strength in it, they rather expect to discover another Atlas of the world who is stronger

and more everlasting and more containing than the good;—of the obligatory and

containing power of the good they think nothing; and yet this is the principle which I

would fain learn if any one would teach me. But as I have failed either to discover

myself, or to learn of any one else, the nature of the best, I will exhibit to you, if you like,

what I have found to be the second best mode of enquiring into the cause.

I should very much like to hear, he replied.

Socrates proceeded:—I thought that as I had failed in the contemplation of true

existence, I ought to be careful that I did not lose the eye of my soul; as people may

injure their bodily eye by observing and gazing on the sun during an eclipse, unless they

take the precaution of only looking at the image reflected in the water, or in some

similar medium. So in my own case, I was afraid that my soul might be blinded

altogether if I looked at things with my eyes or tried to apprehend them by the help of

the senses. And I thought that I had better have recourse to the world of mind and seek

there the truth of existence. I dare say that the simile is not perfect— for I am very far

from admitting that he who contemplates existences through the medium of thought,

sees them only 'through a glass darkly,' any more than he who considers them in action

and operation. However, this was the method which I adopted: I first assumed some

principle which I judged to be the strongest, and then I affirmed as true whatever

seemed to agree with this, whether relating to the cause or to anything else; and that

which disagreed I regarded as untrue. But I should like to explain my meaning more

clearly, as I do not think that you as yet understand me.

No indeed, replied Cebes, not very well.

There is nothing new, he said, in what I am about to tell you; but only what I have been

always and everywhere repeating in the previous discussion and on other occasions: I

want to show you the nature of that cause which has occupied my thoughts. I shall have

to go back to those familiar words which are in the mouth of every one, and first of all

assume that there is an absolute beauty and goodness and greatness, and the like; grant

me this, and I hope to be able to show you the nature of the cause, and to prove the

immortality of the soul.

Cebes said: You may proceed at once with the proof, for I grant you this.

Well, he said, then I should like to know whether you agree with me in the next step; for

I cannot help thinking, if there be anything beautiful other than absolute beauty should

there be such, that it can be beautiful only in as far as it partakes of absolute beauty—

and I should say the same of everything. Do you agree in this notion of the cause?

Yes, he said, I agree.

He proceeded: I know nothing and can understand nothing of any other of those wise

causes which are alleged; and if a person says to me that the bloom of colour, or form,

or any such thing is a source of beauty, I leave all that, which is only confusing to me,

and simply and singly, and perhaps foolishly, hold and am assured in my own mind that

nothing makes a thing beautiful but the presence and participation of beauty in

whatever way or manner obtained; for as to the manner I am uncertain, but I stoutly

contend that by beauty all beautiful things become beautiful. This appears to me to be

the safest answer which I can give, either to myself or to another, and to this I cling, in

the persuasion that this principle will never be overthrown, and that to myself or to any

one who asks the question, I may safely reply, That by beauty beautiful things become

beautiful. Do you not agree with me?

I do.

And that by greatness only great things become great and greater greater, and by

smallness the less become less?

True.

Then if a person were to remark that A is taller by a head than B, and B less by a head

than A, you would refuse to admit his statement, and would stoutly contend that what

you mean is only that the greater is greater by, and by reason of, greatness, and the less

is less only by, and by reason of, smallness; and thus you would avoid the danger of

saying that the greater is greater and the less less by the measure of the head, which is

the same in both, and would also avoid the monstrous absurdity of supposing that the

greater man is greater by reason of the head, which is small. You would be afraid to

draw such an inference, would you not?

Indeed, I should, said Cebes, laughing.

In like manner you would be afraid to say that ten exceeded eight by, and by reason of,

two; but would say by, and by reason of, number; or you would say that two cubits

exceed one cubit not by a half, but by magnitude?-for there is the same liability to error

in all these cases.

Very true, he said.

Again, would you not be cautious of affirming that the addition of one to one, or the

division of one, is the cause of two? And you would loudly asseverate that you know of

no way in which anything comes into existence except by participation in its own proper

essence, and consequently, as far as you know, the only cause of two is the participation

in duality—this is the way to make two, and the participation in one is the way to make

one. You would say: I will let alone puzzles of division and addition—wiser heads than

mine may answer them; inexperienced as I am, and ready to start, as the proverb says, at

my own shadow, I cannot afford to give up the sure ground of a principle. And if any

one assails you there, you would not mind him, or answer him, until you had seen

whether the consequences which follow agree with one another or not, and when you

are further required to give an explanation of this principle, you would go on to assume

a higher principle, and a higher, until you found a resting-place in the best of the higher;

but you would not confuse the principle and the consequences in your reasoning, like

the Eristics—at least if you wanted to discover real existence. Not that this confusion

signifies to them, who never care or think about the matter at all, for they have the wit

to be well pleased with themselves however great may be the turmoil of their ideas. But

you, if you are a philosopher, will certainly do as I say.

What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, both speaking at once.

ECHECRATES: Yes, Phaedo; and I do not wonder at their assenting. Any one who has the

least sense will acknowledge the wonderful clearness of Socrates' reasoning.

PHAEDO: Certainly, Echecrates; and such was the feeling of the whole company at the

time.

ECHECRATES: Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not of the company, and are now

listening to your recital. But what followed?

PHAEDO: After all this had been admitted, and they had that ideas exist, and that other

things participate in them and derive their names from them, Socrates, if I remember

rightly, said:—

This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say that Simmias is greater than Socrates

and less than Phaedo, do you not predicate of Simmias both greatness and smallness?

Yes, I do.

But still you allow that Simmias does not really exceed Socrates, as the words may seem

to imply, because he is Simmias, but by reason of the size which he has; just as Simmias

does not exceed Socrates because he is Simmias, any more than because Socrates is

Socrates, but because he has smallness when compared with the greatness of Simmias?

True.

And if Phaedo exceeds him in size, this is not because Phaedo is Phaedo, but because

Phaedo has greatness relatively to Simmias, who is comparatively smaller?

That is true.

And therefore Simmias is said to be great, and is also said to be small, because he is in a

mean between them, exceeding the smallness of the one by his greatness, and allowing

the greatness of the other to exceed his smallness. He added, laughing, I am speaking

like a book, but I believe that what I am saying is true.

Simmias assented.

I speak as I do because I want you to agree with me in thinking, not only that absolute

greatness will never be great and also small, but that greatness in us or in the concrete

will never admit the small or admit of being exceeded: instead of this, one of two things

will happen, either the greater will fly or retire before the opposite, which is the less, or

at the approach of the less has already ceased to exist; but will not, if allowing or

admitting of smallness, be changed by that; even as I, having received and admitted

smallness when compared with Simmias, remain just as I was, and am the same small

person. And as the idea of greatness cannot condescend ever to be or become small, in

like manner the smallness in us cannot be or become great; nor can any other opposite

which remains the same ever be or become its own opposite, but either passes away or

perishes in the change.

That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion.

Hereupon one of the company, though I do not exactly remember which of them, said:

In heaven's name, is not this the direct contrary of what was admitted before—that out

of the greater came the less and out of the less the greater, and that opposites were

simply generated from opposites; but now this principle seems to be utterly denied.

Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and listened. I like your courage, he said, in

reminding us of this. But you do not observe that there is a difference in the two cases.

For then we were speaking of opposites in the concrete, and now of the essential

opposite which, as is affirmed, neither in us nor in nature can ever be at variance with

itself: then, my friend, we were speaking of things in which opposites are inherent and

which are called after them, but now about the opposites which are inherent in them

and which give their name to them; and these essential opposites will never, as we

maintain, admit of generation into or out of one another. At the same time, turning to

Cebes, he said: Are you at all disconcerted, Cebes, at our friend's objection?

No, I do not feel so, said Cebes; and yet I cannot deny that I am often disturbed by

objections.

Then we are agreed after all, said Socrates, that the opposite will never in any case be

opposed to itself?

To that we are quite agreed, he replied.

Yet once more let me ask you to consider the question from another point of view, and

see whether you agree with me:—There is a thing which you term heat, and another

thing which you term cold?

Certainly.

But are they the same as fire and snow?

Most assuredly not.

Heat is a thing different from fire, and cold is not the same with snow?

Yes.

And yet you will surely admit, that when snow, as was before said, is under the influence

of heat, they will not remain snow and heat; but at the advance of the heat, the snow

will either retire or perish?

Very true, he replied.

And the fire too at the advance of the cold will either retire or perish; and when the fire

is under the influence of the cold, they will not remain as before, fire and cold.

That is true, he said.

And in some cases the name of the idea is not only attached to the idea in an eternal

connection, but anything else which, not being the idea, exists only in the form of the

idea, may also lay claim to it. I will try to make this clearer by an example:—The odd

number is always called by the name of odd?

Very true.

But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are there not other things which have

their own name, and yet are called odd, because, although not the same as oddness,

they are never without oddness?—that is what I mean to ask—whether numbers such as

the number three are not of the class of odd. And there are many other examples:

would you not say, for example, that three may be called by its proper name, and also

be called odd, which is not the same with three? and this may be said not only of three

but also of five, and of every alternate number—each of them without being oddness is

odd, and in the same way two and four, and the other series of alternate numbers, has

every number even, without being evenness. Do you agree?

Of course.

Then now mark the point at which I am aiming:—not only do essential opposites

exclude one another, but also concrete things, which, although not in themselves

opposed, contain opposites; these, I say, likewise reject the idea which is opposed to

that which is contained in them, and when it approaches them they either perish or

withdraw. For example; Will not the number three endure annihilation or anything

sooner than be converted into an even number, while remaining three?

Very true, said Cebes.

And yet, he said, the number two is certainly not opposed to the number three?

It is not.

Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance of one another, but also there are

other natures which repel the approach of opposites.

Very true, he said.

Suppose, he said, that we endeavour, if possible, to determine what these are.

By all means.

Are they not, Cebes, such as compel the things of which they have possession, not only

to take their own form, but also the form of some opposite?

What do you mean?

I mean, as I was just now saying, and as I am sure that you know, that those things

which are possessed by the number three must not only be three in number, but must

also be odd.

Quite true.

And on this oddness, of which the number three has the impress, the opposite idea will

never intrude?

No.

And this impress was given by the odd principle?

Yes.

And to the odd is opposed the even?

True.

Then the idea of the even number will never arrive at three?

No.

Then three has no part in the even?

None.

Then the triad or number three is uneven?

Very true.

To return then to my distinction of natures which are not opposed, and yet do not admit

opposites—as, in the instance given, three, although not opposed to the even, does not

any the more admit of the even, but always brings the opposite into play on the other

side; or as two does not receive the odd, or fire the cold—from these examples (and

there are many more of them) perhaps you may be able to arrive at the general

conclusion, that not only opposites will not receive opposites, but also that nothing

which brings the opposite will admit the opposite of that which it brings, in that to

which it is brought. And here let me recapitulate—for there is no harm in repetition. The

number five will not admit the nature of the even, any more than ten, which is the

double of five, will admit the nature of the odd. The double has another opposite, and is

not strictly opposed to the odd, but nevertheless rejects the odd altogether. Nor again

will parts in the ratio 3:2, nor any fraction in which there is a half, nor again in which

there is a third, admit the notion of the whole, although they are not opposed to the

whole: You will agree?

Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with you in that.

And now, he said, let us begin again; and do not you answer my question in the words

in which I ask it: let me have not the old safe answer of which I spoke at first, but

another equally safe, of which the truth will be inferred by you from what has been just

said. I mean that if any one asks you 'what that is, of which the inherence makes the

body hot,' you will reply not heat (this is what I call the safe and stupid answer), but fire,

a far superior answer, which we are now in a condition to give. Or if any one asks you

'why a body is diseased,' you will not say from disease, but from fever; and instead of

saying that oddness is the cause of odd numbers, you will say that the monad is the

cause of them: and so of things in general, as I dare say that you will understand

sufficiently without my adducing any further examples.

Yes, he said, I quite understand you.

Tell me, then, what is that of which the inherence will render the body alive?

The soul, he replied.

And is this always the case?

Yes, he said, of course.

Then whatever the soul possesses, to that she comes bearing life?

Yes, certainly.

And is there any opposite to life?

There is, he said.

And what is that?

Death.

Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never receive the opposite of what she

brings.

Impossible, replied Cebes.

And now, he said, what did we just now call that principle which repels the even?

The odd.

And that principle which repels the musical, or the just?

The unmusical, he said, and the unjust.

And what do we call the principle which does not admit of death?

The immortal, he said.

And does the soul admit of death?

No.

Then the soul is immortal?

Yes, he said.

And may we say that this has been proven?

Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates, he replied.

Supposing that the odd were imperishable, must not three be imperishable?

Of course.

And if that which is cold were imperishable, when the warm principle came attacking the

snow, must not the snow have retired whole and unmelted—for it could never have

perished, nor could it have remained and admitted the heat?

True, he said.

Again, if the uncooling or warm principle were imperishable, the fire when assailed by

cold would not have perished or have been extinguished, but would have gone away

unaffected?

Certainly, he said.

And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also imperishable, the soul

when attacked by death cannot perish; for the preceding argument shows that the soul

will not admit of death, or ever be dead, any more than three or the odd number will

admit of the even, or fire or the heat in the fire, of the cold. Yet a person may say: 'But

although the odd will not become even at the approach of the even, why may not the

odd perish and the even take the place of the odd?' Now to him who makes this

objection, we cannot answer that the odd principle is imperishable; for this has not been

acknowledged, but if this had been acknowledged, there would have been no difficulty

in contending that at the approach of the even the odd principle and the number three

took their departure; and the same argument would have held good of fire and heat

and any other thing.

Very true.

And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also imperishable, then the

soul will be imperishable as well as immortal; but if not, some other proof of her

imperishableness will have to be given.

No other proof is needed, he said; for if the immortal, being eternal, is liable to perish,

then nothing is imperishable.

Yes, replied Socrates, and yet all men will agree that God, and the essential form of life,

and the immortal in general, will never perish.

Yes, all men, he said—that is true; and what is more, gods, if I am not mistaken, as well

as men.

Seeing then that the immortal is indestructible, must not the soul, if she is immortal, be

also imperishable?

Most certainly.

Then when death attacks a man, the mortal portion of him may be supposed to die, but

the immortal retires at the approach of death and is preserved safe and sound?

True.

Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and imperishable, and our souls will

truly exist in another world!

I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have nothing more to object; but if my friend

Simmias, or any one else, has any further objection to make, he had better speak out,

and not keep silence, since I do not know to what other season he can defer the

discussion, if there is anything which he wants to say or to have said.

But I have nothing more to say, replied Simmias; nor can I see any reason for doubt after

what has been said. But I still feel and cannot help feeling uncertain in my own mind,

when I think of the greatness of the subject and the feebleness of man.

Yes, Simmias, replied Socrates, that is well said: and I may add that first principles, even

if they appear certain, should be carefully considered; and when they are satisfactorily

ascertained, then, with a sort of hesitating confidence in human reason, you may, I think,

follow the course of the argument; and if that be plain and clear, there will be no need

for any further enquiry.

Very true.

But then, O my friends, he said, if the soul is really immortal, what care should be taken

of her, not only in respect of the portion of time which is called life, but of eternity! And

the danger of neglecting her from this point of view does indeed appear to be awful. If

death had only been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good bargain in dying,

for they would have been happily quit not only of their body, but of their own evil

together with their souls. But now, inasmuch as the soul is manifestly immortal, there is

no release or salvation from evil except the attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom.

For the soul when on her progress to the world below takes nothing with her but

nurture and education; and these are said greatly to benefit or greatly to injure the

departed, at the very beginning of his journey thither.

For after death, as they say, the genius of each individual, to whom he belonged in life,

leads him to a certain place in which the dead are gathered together, whence after

judgment has been given they pass into the world below, following the guide, who is

appointed to conduct them from this world to the other: and when they have there

received their due and remained their time, another guide brings them back again after

many revolutions of ages. Now this way to the other world is not, as Aeschylus says in

the Telephus, a single and straight path—if that were so no guide would be needed, for

no one could miss it; but there are many partings of the road, and windings, as I infer

from the rites and sacrifices which are offered to the gods below in places where three

ways meet on earth. The wise and orderly soul follows in the straight path and is

conscious of her surroundings; but the soul which desires the body, and which, as I was

relating before, has long been fluttering about the lifeless frame and the world of sight,

is after many struggles and many sufferings hardly and with violence carried away by

her attendant genius, and when she arrives at the place where the other souls are

gathered, if she be impure and have done impure deeds, whether foul murders or other

crimes which are the brothers of these, and the works of brothers in crime—from that

soul every one flees and turns away; no one will be her companion, no one her guide,

but alone she wanders in extremity of evil until certain times are fulfilled, and when they

are fulfilled, she is borne irresistibly to her own fitting habitation; as every pure and just

soul which has passed through life in the company and under the guidance of the gods

has also her own proper home.

Now the earth has divers wonderful regions, and is indeed in nature and extent very

unlike the notions of geographers, as I believe on the authority of one who shall be

nameless.

What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I have myself heard many descriptions of

the earth, but I do not know, and I should very much like to know, in which of these you

put faith.

And I, Simmias, replied Socrates, if I had the art of Glaucus would tell you; although I

know not that the art of Glaucus could prove the truth of my tale, which I myself should

never be able to prove, and even if I could, I fear, Simmias, that my life would come to

an end before the argument was completed. I may describe to you, however, the form

and regions of the earth according to my conception of them.

That, said Simmias, will be enough.

Well, then, he said, my conviction is, that the earth is a round body in the centre of the

heavens, and therefore has no need of air or any similar force to be a support, but is

kept there and hindered from falling or inclining any way by the equability of the

surrounding heaven and by her own equipoise. For that which, being in equipoise, is in

the centre of that which is equably diffused, will not incline any way in any degree, but

will always remain in the same state and not deviate. And this is my first notion.

Which is surely a correct one, said Simmias.

Also I believe that the earth is very vast, and that we who dwell in the region extending

from the river Phasis to the Pillars of Heracles inhabit a small portion only about the sea,

like ants or frogs about a marsh, and that there are other inhabitants of many other like

places; for everywhere on the face of the earth there are hollows of various forms and

sizes, into which the water and the mist and the lower air collect. But the true earth is

pure and situated in the pure heaven—there are the stars also; and it is the heaven

which is commonly spoken of by us as the ether, and of which our own earth is the

sediment gathering in the hollows beneath. But we who live in these hollows are

deceived into the notion that we are dwelling above on the surface of the earth; which is

just as if a creature who was at the bottom of the sea were to fancy that he was on the

surface of the water, and that the sea was the heaven through which he saw the sun and

the other stars, he having never come to the surface by reason of his feebleness and

sluggishness, and having never lifted up his head and seen, nor ever heard from one

who had seen, how much purer and fairer the world above is than his own. And such is

exactly our case: for we are dwelling in a hollow of the earth, and fancy that we are on

the surface; and the air we call the heaven, in which we imagine that the stars move. But

the fact is, that owing to our feebleness and sluggishness we are prevented from

reaching the surface of the air: for if any man could arrive at the exterior limit, or take

the wings of a bird and come to the top, then like a fish who puts his head out of the

water and sees this world, he would see a world beyond; and, if the nature of man could

sustain the sight, he would acknowledge that this other world was the place of the true

heaven and the true light and the true earth. For our earth, and the stones, and the

entire region which surrounds us, are spoilt and corroded, as in the sea all things are

corroded by the brine, neither is there any noble or perfect growth, but caverns only,

and sand, and an endless slough of mud: and even the shore is not to be compared to

the fairer sights of this world. And still less is this our world to be compared with the

other. Of that upper earth which is under the heaven, I can tell you a charming tale,

Simmias, which is well worth hearing.

And we, Socrates, replied Simmias, shall be charmed to listen to you.

The tale, my friend, he said, is as follows:—In the first place, the earth, when looked at

from above, is in appearance streaked like one of those balls which have leather

coverings in twelve pieces, and is decked with various colours, of which the colours used

by painters on earth are in a manner samples. But there the whole earth is made up of

them, and they are brighter far and clearer than ours; there is a purple of wonderful

lustre, also the radiance of gold, and the white which is in the earth is whiter than any

chalk or snow. Of these and other colours the earth is made up, and they are more in

number and fairer than the eye of man has ever seen; the very hollows (of which I was

speaking) filled with air and water have a colour of their own, and are seen like light

gleaming amid the diversity of the other colours, so that the whole presents a single and

continuous appearance of variety in unity. And in this fair region everything that

grows—trees, and flowers, and fruits—are in a like degree fairer than any here; and

there are hills, having stones in them in a like degree smoother, and more transparent,

and fairer in colour than our highly-valued emeralds and sardonyxes and jaspers, and

other gems, which are but minute fragments of them: for there all the stones are like our

precious stones, and fairer still (compare Republic). The reason is, that they are pure, and

not, like our precious stones, infected or corroded by the corrupt briny elements which

coagulate among us, and which breed foulness and disease both in earth and stones, as

well as in animals and plants. They are the jewels of the upper earth, which also shines

with gold and silver and the like, and they are set in the light of day and are large and

abundant and in all places, making the earth a sight to gladden the beholder's eye. And

there are animals and men, some in a middle region, others dwelling about the air as we

dwell about the sea; others in islands which the air flows round, near the continent: and

in a word, the air is used by them as the water and the sea are by us, and the ether is to

them what the air is to us. Moreover, the temperament of their seasons is such that they

have no disease, and live much longer than we do, and have sight and hearing and

smell, and all the other senses, in far greater perfection, in the same proportion that air

is purer than water or the ether than air. Also they have temples and sacred places in

which the gods really dwell, and they hear their voices and receive their answers, and are

conscious of them and hold converse with them, and they see the sun, moon, and stars

as they truly are, and their other blessedness is of a piece with this.

Such is the nature of the whole earth, and of the things which are around the earth; and

there are divers regions in the hollows on the face of the globe everywhere, some of

them deeper and more extended than that which we inhabit, others deeper but with a

narrower opening than ours, and some are shallower and also wider. All have numerous

perforations, and there are passages broad and narrow in the interior of the earth,

connecting them with one another; and there flows out of and into them, as into basins,

a vast tide of water, and huge subterranean streams of perennial rivers, and springs hot

and cold, and a great fire, and great rivers of fire, and streams of liquid mud, thin or

thick (like the rivers of mud in Sicily, and the lava streams which follow them), and the

regions about which they happen to flow are filled up with them. And there is a

swinging or see-saw in the interior of the earth which moves all this up and down, and is

due to the following cause:—There is a chasm which is the vastest of them all, and

pierces right through the whole earth; this is that chasm which Homer describes in the

words,—

'Far off, where is the inmost depth beneath the earth;'

and which he in other places, and many other poets, have called Tartarus. And the seesaw

is caused by the streams flowing into and out of this chasm, and they each have the

nature of the soil through which they flow. And the reason why the streams are always

flowing in and out, is that the watery element has no bed or bottom, but is swinging

and surging up and down, and the surrounding wind and air do the same; they follow

the water up and down, hither and thither, over the earth—just as in the act of

respiration the air is always in process of inhalation and exhalation;—and the wind

swinging with the water in and out produces fearful and irresistible blasts: when the

waters retire with a rush into the lower parts of the earth, as they are called, they flow

through the earth in those regions, and fill them up like water raised by a pump, and

then when they leave those regions and rush back hither, they again fill the hollows

here, and when these are filled, flow through subterranean channels and find their way

to their several places, forming seas, and lakes, and rivers, and springs. Thence they

again enter the earth, some of them making a long circuit into many lands, others going

to a few places and not so distant; and again fall into Tartarus, some at a point a good

deal lower than that at which they rose, and others not much lower, but all in some

degree lower than the point from which they came. And some burst forth again on the

opposite side, and some on the same side, and some wind round the earth with one or

many folds like the coils of a serpent, and descend as far as they can, but always return

and fall into the chasm. The rivers flowing in either direction can descend only to the

centre and no further, for opposite to the rivers is a precipice.

Now these rivers are many, and mighty, and diverse, and there are four principal ones,

of which the greatest and outermost is that called Oceanus, which flows round the earth

in a circle; and in the opposite direction flows Acheron, which passes under the earth

through desert places into the Acherusian lake: this is the lake to the shores of which the

souls of the many go when they are dead, and after waiting an appointed time, which is

to some a longer and to some a shorter time, they are sent back to be born again as

animals. The third river passes out between the two, and near the place of outlet pours

into a vast region of fire, and forms a lake larger than the Mediterranean Sea, boiling

with water and mud; and proceeding muddy and turbid, and winding about the earth,

comes, among other places, to the extremities of the Acherusian Lake, but mingles not

with the waters of the lake, and after making many coils about the earth plunges into

Tartarus at a deeper level. This is that Pyriphlegethon, as the stream is called, which

throws up jets of fire in different parts of the earth. The fourth river goes out on the

opposite side, and falls first of all into a wild and savage region, which is all of a darkblue

colour, like lapis lazuli; and this is that river which is called the Stygian river, and

falls into and forms the Lake Styx, and after falling into the lake and receiving strange

powers in the waters, passes under the earth, winding round in the opposite direction,

and comes near the Acherusian lake from the opposite side to Pyriphlegethon. And the

water of this river too mingles with no other, but flows round in a circle and falls into

Tartarus over against Pyriphlegethon; and the name of the river, as the poets say, is

Cocytus.

Such is the nature of the other world; and when the dead arrive at the place to which

the genius of each severally guides them, first of all, they have sentence passed upon

them, as they have lived well and piously or not. And those who appear to have lived

neither well nor ill, go to the river Acheron, and embarking in any vessels which they

may find, are carried in them to the lake, and there they dwell and are purified of their

evil deeds, and having suffered the penalty of the wrongs which they have done to

others, they are absolved, and receive the rewards of their good deeds, each of them

according to his deserts. But those who appear to be incurable by reason of the

greatness of their crimes—who have committed many and terrible deeds of sacrilege,

murders foul and violent, or the like—such are hurled into Tartarus which is their

suitable destiny, and they never come out. Those again who have committed crimes,

which, although great, are not irremediable—who in a moment of anger, for example,

have done violence to a father or a mother, and have repented for the remainder of

their lives, or, who have taken the life of another under the like extenuating

circumstances—these are plunged into Tartarus, the pains of which they are compelled

to undergo for a year, but at the end of the year the wave casts them forth—mere

homicides by way of Cocytus, parricides and matricides by Pyriphlegethon—and they

are borne to the Acherusian lake, and there they lift up their voices and call upon the

victims whom they have slain or wronged, to have pity on them, and to be kind to them,

and let them come out into the lake. And if they prevail, then they come forth and cease

from their troubles; but if not, they are carried back again into Tartarus and from thence

into the rivers unceasingly, until they obtain mercy from those whom they have

wronged: for that is the sentence inflicted upon them by their judges. Those too who

have been pre-eminent for holiness of life are released from this earthly prison, and go

to their pure home which is above, and dwell in the purer earth; and of these, such as

have duly purified themselves with philosophy live henceforth altogether without the

body, in mansions fairer still which may not be described, and of which the time would

fail me to tell.

Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what ought not we to do that we may

obtain virtue and wisdom in this life? Fair is the prize, and the hope great!

A man of sense ought not to say, nor will I be very confident, that the description which

I have given of the soul and her mansions is exactly true. But I do say that, inasmuch as

the soul is shown to be immortal, he may venture to think, not improperly or unworthily,

that something of the kind is true. The venture is a glorious one, and he ought to

comfort himself with words like these, which is the reason why I lengthen out the tale.

Wherefore, I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul, who having cast away the

pleasures and ornaments of the body as alien to him and working harm rather than

good, has sought after the pleasures of knowledge; and has arrayed the soul, not in

some foreign attire, but in her own proper jewels, temperance, and justice, and courage,

and nobility, and truth—in these adorned she is ready to go on her journey to the world

below, when her hour comes. You, Simmias and Cebes, and all other men, will depart at

some time or other. Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls.

Soon I must drink the poison; and I think that I had better repair to the bath first, in

order that the women may not have the trouble of washing my body after I am dead.

When he had done speaking, Crito said: And have you any commands for us, Socrates—

anything to say about your children, or any other matter in which we can serve you?

Nothing particular, Crito, he replied: only, as I have always told you, take care of

yourselves; that is a service which you may be ever rendering to me and mine and to all

of us, whether you promise to do so or not. But if you have no thought for yourselves,

and care not to walk according to the rule which I have prescribed for you, not now for

the first time, however much you may profess or promise at the moment, it will be of no

avail.

We will do our best, said Crito: And in what way shall we bury you?

In any way that you like; but you must get hold of me, and take care that I do not run

away from you. Then he turned to us, and added with a smile:—I cannot make Crito

believe that I am the same Socrates who have been talking and conducting the

argument; he fancies that I am the other Socrates whom he will soon see, a dead

body—and he asks, How shall he bury me? And though I have spoken many words in

the endeavour to show that when I have drunk the poison I shall leave you and go to

the joys of the blessed,— these words of mine, with which I was comforting you and

myself, have had, as I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And therefore I want you to be

surety for me to him now, as at the trial he was surety to the judges for me: but let the

promise be of another sort; for he was surety for me to the judges that I would remain,

and you must be my surety to him that I shall not remain, but go away and depart; and

then he will suffer less at my death, and not be grieved when he sees my body being

burned or buried. I would not have him sorrow at my hard lot, or say at the burial, Thus

we lay out Socrates, or, Thus we follow him to the grave or bury him; for false words are

not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil. Be of good cheer, then, my

dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only, and do with that whatever is

usual, and what you think best.

When he had spoken these words, he arose and went into a chamber to bathe; Crito

followed him and told us to wait. So we remained behind, talking and thinking of the

subject of discourse, and also of the greatness of our sorrow; he was like a father of

whom we were being bereaved, and we were about to pass the rest of our lives as

orphans. When he had taken the bath his children were brought to him—(he had two

young sons and an elder one); and the women of his family also came, and he talked to

them and gave them a few directions in the presence of Crito; then he dismissed them

and returned to us.

Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal of time had passed while he was

within. When he came out, he sat down with us again after his bath, but not much was

said. Soon the jailer, who was the servant of the Eleven, entered and stood by him,

saying:—To you, Socrates, whom I know to be the noblest and gentlest and best of all

who ever came to this place, I will not impute the angry feelings of other men, who rage

and swear at me, when, in obedience to the authorities, I bid them drink the poison—

indeed, I am sure that you will not be angry with me; for others, as you are aware, and

not I, are to blame. And so fare you well, and try to bear lightly what must needs be—

you know my errand. Then bursting into tears he turned away and went out.

Socrates looked at him and said: I return your good wishes, and will do as you bid. Then

turning to us, he said, How charming the man is: since I have been in prison he has

always been coming to see me, and at times he would talk to me, and was as good to

me as could be, and now see how generously he sorrows on my account. We must do as

he says, Crito; and therefore let the cup be brought, if the poison is prepared: if not, let

the attendant prepare some.

Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and I know that many a one has taken

the draught late, and after the announcement has been made to him, he has eaten and

drunk, and enjoyed the society of his beloved; do not hurry—there is time enough.

Socrates said: Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are right in so acting, for they

think that they will be gainers by the delay; but I am right in not following their example,

for I do not think that I should gain anything by drinking the poison a little later; I

should only be ridiculous in my own eyes for sparing and saving a life which is already

forfeit. Please then to do as I say, and not to refuse me.

Crito made a sign to the servant, who was standing by; and he went out, and having

been absent for some time, returned with the jailer carrying the cup of poison. Socrates

said: You, my good friend, who are experienced in these matters, shall give me

directions how I am to proceed. The man answered: You have only to walk about until

your legs are heavy, and then to lie down, and the poison will act. At the same time he

handed the cup to Socrates, who in the easiest and gentlest manner, without the least

fear or change of colour or feature, looking at the man with all his eyes, Echecrates, as

his manner was, took the cup and said: What do you say about making a libation out of

this cup to any god? May I, or not? The man answered: We only prepare, Socrates, just

so much as we deem enough. I understand, he said: but I may and must ask the gods to

prosper my journey from this to the other world—even so—and so be it according to

my prayer. Then raising the cup to his lips, quite readily and cheerfully he drank off the

poison. And hitherto most of us had been able to control our sorrow; but now when we

saw him drinking, and saw too that he had finished the draught, we could no longer

forbear, and in spite of myself my own tears were flowing fast; so that I covered my face

and wept, not for him, but at the thought of my own calamity in having to part from

such a friend. Nor was I the first; for Crito, when he found himself unable to restrain his

tears, had got up, and I followed; and at that moment, Apollodorus, who had been

weeping all the time, broke out in a loud and passionate cry which made cowards of us

all. Socrates alone retained his calmness: What is this strange outcry? he said. I sent

away the women mainly in order that they might not misbehave in this way, for I have

been told that a man should die in peace. Be quiet, then, and have patience. When we

heard his words we were ashamed, and refrained our tears; and he walked about until,

as he said, his legs began to fail, and then he lay on his back, according to the

directions, and the man who gave him the poison now and then looked at his feet and

legs; and after a while he pressed his foot hard, and asked him if he could feel; and he

said, No; and then his leg, and so upwards and upwards, and showed us that he was

cold and stiff. And he felt them himself, and said: When the poison reaches the heart,

that will be the end. He was beginning to grow cold about the groin, when he

uncovered his face, for he had covered himself up, and said—they were his last words—

he said: Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt? The debt

shall be paid, said Crito; is there anything else? There was no answer to this question;

but in a minute or two a movement was heard, and the attendants uncovered him; his

eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes and mouth.

Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend; concerning whom I may truly say, that of all

the men of his time whom I have known, he was the wisest and justest and best.

THE END

PHAEDRUS

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Phaedrus.

SCENE: Under a plane-tree, by the banks of the Ilissus.

SOCRATES: My dear Phaedrus, whence come you, and whither are you going?

PHAEDRUS: I come from Lysias the son of Cephalus, and I am going to take a walk

outside the wall, for I have been sitting with him the whole morning; and our common

friend Acumenus tells me that it is much more refreshing to walk in the open air than to

be shut up in a cloister.

SOCRATES: There he is right. Lysias then, I suppose, was in the town?

PHAEDRUS: Yes, he was staying with Epicrates, here at the house of Morychus; that

house which is near the temple of Olympian Zeus.

SOCRATES: And how did he entertain you? Can I be wrong in supposing that Lysias gave

you a feast of discourse?

PHAEDRUS: You shall hear, if you can spare time to accompany me.

SOCRATES: And should I not deem the conversation of you and Lysias 'a thing of higher

import,' as I may say in the words of Pindar, 'than any business'?

PHAEDRUS: Will you go on?

SOCRATES: And will you go on with the narration?

PHAEDRUS: My tale, Socrates, is one of your sort, for love was the theme which

occupied us—love after a fashion: Lysias has been writing about a fair youth who was

being tempted, but not by a lover; and this was the point: he ingeniously proved that

the non-lover should be accepted rather than the lover.

SOCRATES: O that is noble of him! I wish that he would say the poor man rather than

the rich, and the old man rather than the young one;—then he would meet the case of

me and of many a man; his words would be quite refreshing, and he would be a public

benefactor. For my part, I do so long to hear his speech, that if you walk all the way to

Megara, and when you have reached the wall come back, as Herodicus recommends,

without going in, I will keep you company.

PHAEDRUS: What do you mean, my good Socrates? How can you imagine that my

unpractised memory can do justice to an elaborate work, which the greatest rhetorician

of the age spent a long time in composing. Indeed, I cannot; I would give a great deal if

I could.

SOCRATES: I believe that I know Phaedrus about as well as I know myself, and I am very

sure that the speech of Lysias was repeated to him, not once only, but again and

again;—he insisted on hearing it many times over and Lysias was very willing to gratify

him; at last, when nothing else would do, he got hold of the book, and looked at what

he most wanted to see,— this occupied him during the whole morning;—and then when

he was tired with sitting, he went out to take a walk, not until, by the dog, as I believe,

he had simply learned by heart the entire discourse, unless it was unusually long, and he

went to a place outside the wall that he might practise his lesson. There he saw a certain

lover of discourse who had a similar weakness;—he saw and rejoiced; now thought he, 'I

shall have a partner in my revels.' And he invited him to come and walk with him. But

when the lover of discourse begged that he would repeat the tale, he gave himself airs

and said, 'No I cannot,' as if he were indisposed; although, if the hearer had refused, he

would sooner or later have been compelled by him to listen whether he would or no.

Therefore, Phaedrus, bid him do at once what he will soon do whether bidden or not.

PHAEDRUS: I see that you will not let me off until I speak in some fashion or other; verily

therefore my best plan is to speak as I best can.

SOCRATES: A very true remark, that of yours.

PHAEDRUS: I will do as I say; but believe me, Socrates, I did not learn the very words—O

no; nevertheless I have a general notion of what he said, and will give you a summary of

the points in which the lover differed from the non-lover. Let me begin at the beginning.

SOCRATES: Yes, my sweet one; but you must first of all show what you have in your left

hand under your cloak, for that roll, as I suspect, is the actual discourse. Now, much as I

love you, I would not have you suppose that I am going to have your memory exercised

at my expense, if you have Lysias himself here.

PHAEDRUS: Enough; I see that I have no hope of practising my art upon you. But if I am

to read, where would you please to sit?

SOCRATES: Let us turn aside and go by the Ilissus; we will sit down at some quiet spot.

PHAEDRUS: I am fortunate in not having my sandals, and as you never have any, I think

that we may go along the brook and cool our feet in the water; this will be the easiest

way, and at midday and in the summer is far from being unpleasant.

SOCRATES: Lead on, and look out for a place in which we can sit down.

PHAEDRUS: Do you see the tallest plane-tree in the distance?

SOCRATES: Yes.

PHAEDRUS: There are shade and gentle breezes, and grass on which we may either sit

or lie down.

SOCRATES: Move forward.

PHAEDRUS: I should like to know, Socrates, whether the place is not somewhere here at

which Boreas is said to have carried off Orithyia from the banks of the Ilissus?

SOCRATES: Such is the tradition.

PHAEDRUS: And is this the exact spot? The little stream is delightfully clear and bright; I

can fancy that there might be maidens playing near.

SOCRATES: I believe that the spot is not exactly here, but about a quarter of a mile lower

down, where you cross to the temple of Artemis, and there is, I think, some sort of an

altar of Boreas at the place.

PHAEDRUS: I have never noticed it; but I beseech you to tell me, Socrates, do you

believe this tale?

SOCRATES: The wise are doubtful, and I should not be singular if, like them, I too

doubted. I might have a rational explanation that Orithyia was playing with Pharmacia,

when a northern gust carried her over the neighbouring rocks; and this being the

manner of her death, she was said to have been carried away by Boreas. There is a

discrepancy, however, about the locality; according to another version of the story she

was taken from Areopagus, and not from this place. Now I quite acknowledge that these

allegories are very nice, but he is not to be envied who has to invent them; much labour

and ingenuity will be required of him; and when he has once begun, he must go on and

rehabilitate Hippocentaurs and chimeras dire. Gorgons and winged steeds flow in apace,

and numberless other inconceivable and portentous natures. And if he is sceptical about

them, and would fain reduce them one after another to the rules of probability, this sort

of crude philosophy will take up a great deal of time. Now I have no leisure for such

enquiries; shall I tell you why? I must first know myself, as the Delphian inscription says;

to be curious about that which is not my concern, while I am still in ignorance of my

own self, would be ridiculous. And therefore I bid farewell to all this; the common

opinion is enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want to know not about this, but about

myself: am I a monster more complicated and swollen with passion than the serpent

Typho, or a creature of a gentler and simpler sort, to whom Nature has given a diviner

and lowlier destiny? But let me ask you, friend: have we not reached the plane-tree to

which you were conducting us?

PHAEDRUS: Yes, this is the tree.

SOCRATES: By Here, a fair resting-place, full of summer sounds and scents. Here is this

lofty and spreading plane-tree, and the agnus castus high and clustering, in the fullest

blossom and the greatest fragrance; and the stream which flows beneath the plane-tree

is deliciously cold to the feet. Judging from the ornaments and images, this must be a

spot sacred to Achelous and the Nymphs. How delightful is the breeze:—so very sweet;

and there is a sound in the air shrill and summerlike which makes answer to the chorus

of the cicadae. But the greatest charm of all is the grass, like a pillow gently sloping to

the head. My dear Phaedrus, you have been an admirable guide.

PHAEDRUS: What an incomprehensible being you are, Socrates: when you are in the

country, as you say, you really are like some stranger who is led about by a guide. Do

you ever cross the border? I rather think that you never venture even outside the gates.

SOCRATES: Very true, my good friend; and I hope that you will excuse me when you

hear the reason, which is, that I am a lover of knowledge, and the men who dwell in the

city are my teachers, and not the trees or the country. Though I do indeed believe that

you have found a spell with which to draw me out of the city into the country, like a

hungry cow before whom a bough or a bunch of fruit is waved. For only hold up before

me in like manner a book, and you may lead me all round Attica, and over the wide

world. And now having arrived, I intend to lie down, and do you choose any posture in

which you can read best. Begin.

PHAEDRUS: Listen. You know how matters stand with me; and how, as I conceive, this

affair may be arranged for the advantage of both of us. And I maintain that I ought not

to fail in my suit, because I am not your lover: for lovers repent of the kindnesses which

they have shown when their passion ceases, but to the non-lovers who are free and not

under any compulsion, no time of repentance ever comes; for they confer their benefits

according to the measure of their ability, in the way which is most conducive to their

own interest. Then again, lovers consider how by reason of their love they have

neglected their own concerns and rendered service to others: and when to these

benefits conferred they add on the troubles which they have endured, they think that

they have long ago made to the beloved a very ample return. But the non-lover has no

such tormenting recollections; he has never neglected his affairs or quarrelled with his

relations; he has no troubles to add up or excuses to invent; and being well rid of all

these evils, why should he not freely do what will gratify the beloved? If you say that the

lover is more to be esteemed, because his love is thought to be greater; for he is willing

to say and do what is hateful to other men, in order to please his beloved;—that, if true,

is only a proof that he will prefer any future love to his present, and will injure his old

love at the pleasure of the new. And how, in a matter of such infinite importance, can a

man be right in trusting himself to one who is afflicted with a malady which no

experienced person would attempt to cure, for the patient himself admits that he is not

in his right mind, and acknowledges that he is wrong in his mind, but says that he is

unable to control himself? And if he came to his right mind, would he ever imagine that

the desires were good which he conceived when in his wrong mind? Once more, there

are many more non-lovers than lovers; and if you choose the best of the lovers, you will

not have many to choose from; but if from the non-lovers, the choice will be larger, and

you will be far more likely to find among them a person who is worthy of your

friendship. If public opinion be your dread, and you would avoid reproach, in all

probability the lover, who is always thinking that other men are as emulous of him as he

is of them, will boast to some one of his successes, and make a show of them openly in

the pride of his heart;—he wants others to know that his labour has not been lost; but

the non-lover is more his own master, and is desirous of solid good, and not of the

opinion of mankind. Again, the lover may be generally noted or seen following the

beloved (this is his regular occupation), and whenever they are observed to exchange

two words they are supposed to meet about some affair of love either past or in

contemplation; but when non-lovers meet, no one asks the reason why, because people

know that talking to another is natural, whether friendship or mere pleasure be the

motive. Once more, if you fear the fickleness of friendship, consider that in any other

case a quarrel might be a mutual calamity; but now, when you have given up what is

most precious to you, you will be the greater loser, and therefore, you will have more

reason in being afraid of the lover, for his vexations are many, and he is always fancying

that every one is leagued against him. Wherefore also he debars his beloved from

society; he will not have you intimate with the wealthy, lest they should exceed him in

wealth, or with men of education, lest they should be his superiors in understanding;

and he is equally afraid of anybody's influence who has any other advantage over

himself. If he can persuade you to break with them, you are left without a friend in the

world; or if, out of a regard to your own interest, you have more sense than to comply

with his desire, you will have to quarrel with him. But those who are non-lovers, and

whose success in love is the reward of their merit, will not be jealous of the companions

of their beloved, and will rather hate those who refuse to be his associates, thinking that

their favourite is slighted by the latter and benefited by the former; for more love than

hatred may be expected to come to him out of his friendship with others. Many lovers

too have loved the person of a youth before they knew his character or his belongings;

so that when their passion has passed away, there is no knowing whether they will

continue to be his friends; whereas, in the case of non-lovers who were always friends,

the friendship is not lessened by the favours granted; but the recollection of these

remains with them, and is an earnest of good things to come.

Further, I say that you are likely to be improved by me, whereas the lover will spoil you.

For they praise your words and actions in a wrong way; partly, because they are afraid of

offending you, and also, their judgment is weakened by passion. Such are the feats

which love exhibits; he makes things painful to the disappointed which give no pain to

others; he compels the successful lover to praise what ought not to give him pleasure,

and therefore the beloved is to be pitied rather than envied. But if you listen to me, in

the first place, I, in my intercourse with you, shall not merely regard present enjoyment,

but also future advantage, being not mastered by love, but my own master; nor for

small causes taking violent dislikes, but even when the cause is great, slowly laying up

little wrath— unintentional offences I shall forgive, and intentional ones I shall try to

prevent; and these are the marks of a friendship which will last.

Do you think that a lover only can be a firm friend? reflect:—if this were true, we should

set small value on sons, or fathers, or mothers; nor should we ever have loyal friends, for

our love of them arises not from passion, but from other associations. Further, if we

ought to shower favours on those who are the most eager suitors,—on that principle,

we ought always to do good, not to the most virtuous, but to the most needy; for they

are the persons who will be most relieved, and will therefore be the most grateful; and

when you make a feast you should invite not your friend, but the beggar and the empty

soul; for they will love you, and attend you, and come about your doors, and will be the

best pleased, and the most grateful, and will invoke many a blessing on your head. Yet

surely you ought not to be granting favours to those who besiege you with prayer, but

to those who are best able to reward you; nor to the lover only, but to those who are

worthy of love; nor to those who will enjoy the bloom of your youth, but to those who

will share their possessions with you in age; nor to those who, having succeeded, will

glory in their success to others, but to those who will be modest and tell no tales; nor to

those who care about you for a moment only, but to those who will continue your

friends through life; nor to those who, when their passion is over, will pick a quarrel with

you, but rather to those who, when the charm of youth has left you, will show their own

virtue. Remember what I have said; and consider yet this further point: friends admonish

the lover under the idea that his way of life is bad, but no one of his kindred ever yet

censured the non-lover, or thought that he was ill-advised about his own interests.

'Perhaps you will ask me whether I propose that you should indulge every non-lover. To

which I reply that not even the lover would advise you to indulge all lovers, for the

indiscriminate favour is less esteemed by the rational recipient, and less easily hidden by

him who would escape the censure of the world. Now love ought to be for the

advantage of both parties, and for the injury of neither.

'I believe that I have said enough; but if there is anything more which you desire or

which in your opinion needs to be supplied, ask and I will answer.'

Now, Socrates, what do you think? Is not the discourse excellent, more especially in the

matter of the language?

SOCRATES: Yes, quite admirable; the effect on me was ravishing. And this I owe to you,

Phaedrus, for I observed you while reading to be in an ecstasy, and thinking that you are

more experienced in these matters than I am, I followed your example, and, like you, my

divine darling, I became inspired with a phrenzy.

PHAEDRUS: Indeed, you are pleased to be merry.

SOCRATES: Do you mean that I am not in earnest?

PHAEDRUS: Now don't talk in that way, Socrates, but let me have your real opinion; I

adjure you, by Zeus, the god of friendship, to tell me whether you think that any Hellene

could have said more or spoken better on the same subject.

SOCRATES: Well, but are you and I expected to praise the sentiments of the author, or

only the clearness, and roundness, and finish, and tournure of the language? As to the

first I willingly submit to your better judgment, for I am not worthy to form an opinion,

having only attended to the rhetorical manner; and I was doubting whether this could

have been defended even by Lysias himself; I thought, though I speak under correction,

that he repeated himself two or three times, either from want of words or from want of

pains; and also, he appeared to me ostentatiously to exult in showing how well he could

say the same thing in two or three ways.

PHAEDRUS: Nonsense, Socrates; what you call repetition was the especial merit of the

speech; for he omitted no topic of which the subject rightly allowed, and I do not think

that any one could have spoken better or more exhaustively.

SOCRATES: There I cannot go along with you. Ancient sages, men and women, who have

spoken and written of these things, would rise up in judgment against me, if out of

complaisance I assented to you.

PHAEDRUS: Who are they, and where did you hear anything better than this?

SOCRATES: I am sure that I must have heard; but at this moment I do not remember

from whom; perhaps from Sappho the fair, or Anacreon the wise; or, possibly, from a

prose writer. Why do I say so? Why, because I perceive that my bosom is full, and that I

could make another speech as good as that of Lysias, and different. Now I am certain

that this is not an invention of my own, who am well aware that I know nothing, and

therefore I can only infer that I have been filled through the ears, like a pitcher, from the

waters of another, though I have actually forgotten in my stupidity who was my

informant.

PHAEDRUS: That is grand:—but never mind where you heard the discourse or from

whom; let that be a mystery not to be divulged even at my earnest desire. Only, as you

say, promise to make another and better oration, equal in length and entirely new, on

the same subject; and I, like the nine Archons, will promise to set up a golden image at

Delphi, not only of myself, but of you, and as large as life.

SOCRATES: You are a dear golden ass if you suppose me to mean that Lysias has

altogether missed the mark, and that I can make a speech from which all his arguments

are to be excluded. The worst of authors will say something which is to the point. Who,

for example, could speak on this thesis of yours without praising the discretion of the

non-lover and blaming the indiscretion of the lover? These are the commonplaces of the

subject which must come in (for what else is there to be said?) and must be allowed and

excused; the only merit is in the arrangement of them, for there can be none in the

invention; but when you leave the commonplaces, then there may be some originality.

PHAEDRUS: I admit that there is reason in what you say, and I too will be reasonable,

and will allow you to start with the premiss that the lover is more disordered in his wits

than the non-lover; if in what remains you make a longer and better speech than Lysias,

and use other arguments, then I say again, that a statue you shall have of beaten gold,

and take your place by the colossal offerings of the Cypselids at Olympia.

SOCRATES: How profoundly in earnest is the lover, because to tease him I lay a finger

upon his love! And so, Phaedrus, you really imagine that I am going to improve upon

the ingenuity of Lysias?

PHAEDRUS: There I have you as you had me, and you must just speak 'as you best can.'

Do not let us exchange 'tu quoque' as in a farce, or compel me to say to you as you said

to me, 'I know Socrates as well as I know myself, and he was wanting to speak, but he

gave himself airs.' Rather I would have you consider that from this place we stir not until

you have unbosomed yourself of the speech; for here are we all alone, and I am

stronger, remember, and younger than you:—Wherefore perpend, and do not compel

me to use violence.

SOCRATES: But, my sweet Phaedrus, how ridiculous it would be of me to compete with

Lysias in an extempore speech! He is a master in his art and I am an untaught man.

PHAEDRUS: You see how matters stand; and therefore let there be no more pretences;

for, indeed, I know the word that is irresistible.

SOCRATES: Then don't say it.

PHAEDRUS: Yes, but I will; and my word shall be an oath. 'I say, or rather swear'—but

what god will be witness of my oath?—'By this plane- tree I swear, that unless you

repeat the discourse here in the face of this very plane-tree, I will never tell you another;

never let you have word of another!'

SOCRATES: Villain! I am conquered; the poor lover of discourse has no more to say.

PHAEDRUS: Then why are you still at your tricks?

SOCRATES: I am not going to play tricks now that you have taken the oath, for I cannot

allow myself to be starved.

PHAEDRUS: Proceed.

SOCRATES: Shall I tell you what I will do?

PHAEDRUS: What?

SOCRATES: I will veil my face and gallop through the discourse as fast as I can, for if I

see you I shall feel ashamed and not know what to say.

PHAEDRUS: Only go on and you may do anything else which you please.

SOCRATES: Come, O ye Muses, melodious, as ye are called, whether you have received

this name from the character of your strains, or because the Melians are a musical race,

help, O help me in the tale which my good friend here desires me to rehearse, in order

that his friend whom he always deemed wise may seem to him to be wiser than ever.

Once upon a time there was a fair boy, or, more properly speaking, a youth; he was very

fair and had a great many lovers; and there was one special cunning one, who had

persuaded the youth that he did not love him, but he really loved him all the same; and

one day when he was paying his addresses to him, he used this very argument—that he

ought to accept the non-lover rather than the lover; his words were as follows:—

'All good counsel begins in the same way; a man should know what he is advising

about, or his counsel will all come to nought. But people imagine that they know about

the nature of things, when they don't know about them, and, not having come to an

understanding at first because they think that they know, they end, as might be

expected, in contradicting one another and themselves. Now you and I must not be

guilty of this fundamental error which we condemn in others; but as our question is

whether the lover or non-lover is to be preferred, let us first of all agree in defining the

nature and power of love, and then, keeping our eyes upon the definition and to this

appealing, let us further enquire whether love brings advantage or disadvantage.

'Every one sees that love is a desire, and we know also that non-lovers desire the

beautiful and good. Now in what way is the lover to be distinguished from the nonlover?

Let us note that in every one of us there are two guiding and ruling principles

which lead us whither they will; one is the natural desire of pleasure, the other is an

acquired opinion which aspires after the best; and these two are sometimes in harmony

and then again at war, and sometimes the one, sometimes the other conquers. When

opinion by the help of reason leads us to the best, the conquering principle is called

temperance; but when desire, which is devoid of reason, rules in us and drags us to

pleasure, that power of misrule is called excess. Now excess has many names, and many

members, and many forms, and any of these forms when very marked gives a name,

neither honourable nor creditable, to the bearer of the name. The desire of eating, for

example, which gets the better of the higher reason and the other desires, is called

gluttony, and he who is possessed by it is called a glutton; the tyrannical desire of drink,

which inclines the possessor of the desire to drink, has a name which is only too

obvious, and there can be as little doubt by what name any other appetite of the same

family would be called;—it will be the name of that which happens to be dominant. And

now I think that you will perceive the drift of my discourse; but as every spoken word is

in a manner plainer than the unspoken, I had better say further that the irrational desire

which overcomes the tendency of opinion towards right, and is led away to the

enjoyment of beauty, and especially of personal beauty, by the desires which are her

own kindred—that supreme desire, I say, which by leading conquers and by the force of

passion is reinforced, from this very force, receiving a name, is called love (erromenos

eros).'

And now, dear Phaedrus, I shall pause for an instant to ask whether you do not think

me, as I appear to myself, inspired?

PHAEDRUS: Yes, Socrates, you seem to have a very unusual flow of words.

SOCRATES: Listen to me, then, in silence; for surely the place is holy; so that you must

not wonder, if, as I proceed, I appear to be in a divine fury, for already I am getting into

dithyrambics.

PHAEDRUS: Nothing can be truer.

SOCRATES: The responsibility rests with you. But hear what follows, and perhaps the fit

may be averted; all is in their hands above. I will go on talking to my youth. Listen:—

Thus, my friend, we have declared and defined the nature of the subject. Keeping the

definition in view, let us now enquire what advantage or disadvantage is likely to ensue

from the lover or the non-lover to him who accepts their advances.

He who is the victim of his passions and the slave of pleasure will of course desire to

make his beloved as agreeable to himself as possible. Now to him who has a mind

diseased anything is agreeable which is not opposed to him, but that which is equal or

superior is hateful to him, and therefore the lover will not brook any superiority or

equality on the part of his beloved; he is always employed in reducing him to inferiority.

And the ignorant is the inferior of the wise, the coward of the brave, the slow of speech

of the speaker, the dull of the clever. These, and not these only, are the mental defects

of the beloved;—defects which, when implanted by nature, are necessarily a delight to

the lover, and when not implanted, he must contrive to implant them in him, if he would

not be deprived of his fleeting joy. And therefore he cannot help being jealous, and will

debar his beloved from the advantages of society which would make a man of him, and

especially from that society which would have given him wisdom, and thereby he cannot

fail to do him great harm. That is to say, in his excessive fear lest he should come to be

despised in his eyes he will be compelled to banish from him divine philosophy; and

there is no greater injury which he can inflict upon him than this. He will contrive that his

beloved shall be wholly ignorant, and in everything shall look to him; he is to be the

delight of the lover's heart, and a curse to himself. Verily, a lover is a profitable guardian

and associate for him in all that relates to his mind.

Let us next see how his master, whose law of life is pleasure and not good, will keep and

train the body of his servant. Will he not choose a beloved who is delicate rather than

sturdy and strong? One brought up in shady bowers and not in the bright sun, a

stranger to manly exercises and the sweat of toil, accustomed only to a soft and

luxurious diet, instead of the hues of health having the colours of paint and ornament,

and the rest of a piece?—such a life as any one can imagine and which I need not detail

at length. But I may sum up all that I have to say in a word, and pass on. Such a person

in war, or in any of the great crises of life, will be the anxiety of his friends and also of his

lover, and certainly not the terror of his enemies; which nobody can deny.

And now let us tell what advantage or disadvantage the beloved will receive from the

guardianship and society of his lover in the matter of his property; this is the next point

to be considered. The lover will be the first to see what, indeed, will be sufficiently

evident to all men, that he desires above all things to deprive his beloved of his dearest

and best and holiest possessions, father, mother, kindred, friends, of all whom he thinks

may be hinderers or reprovers of their most sweet converse; he will even cast a jealous

eye upon his gold and silver or other property, because these make him a less easy prey,

and when caught less manageable; hence he is of necessity displeased at his possession

of them and rejoices at their loss; and he would like him to be wifeless, childless,

homeless, as well; and the longer the better, for the longer he is all this, the longer he

will enjoy him.

There are some sort of animals, such as flatterers, who are dangerous and mischievous

enough, and yet nature has mingled a temporary pleasure and grace in their

composition. You may say that a courtesan is hurtful, and disapprove of such creatures

and their practices, and yet for the time they are very pleasant. But the lover is not only

hurtful to his love; he is also an extremely disagreeable companion. The old proverb says

that 'birds of a feather flock together'; I suppose that equality of years inclines them to

the same pleasures, and similarity begets friendship; yet you may have more than

enough even of this; and verily constraint is always said to be grievous. Now the lover is

not only unlike his beloved, but he forces himself upon him. For he is old and his love is

young, and neither day nor night will he leave him if he can help; necessity and the sting

of desire drive him on, and allure him with the pleasure which he receives from seeing,

hearing, touching, perceiving him in every way. And therefore he is delighted to fasten

upon him and to minister to him. But what pleasure or consolation can the beloved be

receiving all this time? Must he not feel the extremity of disgust when he looks at an old

shrivelled face and the remainder to match, which even in a description is disagreeable,

and quite detestable when he is forced into daily contact with his lover; moreover he is

jealously watched and guarded against everything and everybody, and has to hear

misplaced and exaggerated praises of himself, and censures equally inappropriate,

which are intolerable when the man is sober, and, besides being intolerable, are

published all over the world in all their indelicacy and wearisomeness when he is drunk.

And not only while his love continues is he mischievous and unpleasant, but when his

love ceases he becomes a perfidious enemy of him on whom he showered his oaths and

prayers and promises, and yet could hardly prevail upon him to tolerate the tedium of

his company even from motives of interest. The hour of payment arrives, and now he is

the servant of another master; instead of love and infatuation, wisdom and temperance

are his bosom's lords; but the beloved has not discovered the change which has taken

place in him, when he asks for a return and recalls to his recollection former sayings and

doings; he believes himself to be speaking to the same person, and the other, not

having the courage to confess the truth, and not knowing how to fulfil the oaths and

promises which he made when under the dominion of folly, and having now grown wise

and temperate, does not want to do as he did or to be as he was before. And so he runs

away and is constrained to be a defaulter; the oyster-shell (In allusion to a game in

which two parties fled or pursued according as an oyster-shell which was thrown into

the air fell with the dark or light side uppermost.) has fallen with the other side

uppermost—he changes pursuit into flight, while the other is compelled to follow him

with passion and imprecation, not knowing that he ought never from the first to have

accepted a demented lover instead of a sensible non-lover; and that in making such a

choice he was giving himself up to a faithless, morose, envious, disagreeable being,

hurtful to his estate, hurtful to his bodily health, and still more hurtful to the cultivation

of his mind, than which there neither is nor ever will be anything more honoured in the

eyes both of gods and men. Consider this, fair youth, and know that in the friendship of

the lover there is no real kindness; he has an appetite and wants to feed upon you:

'As wolves love lambs so lovers love their loves.'

But I told you so, I am speaking in verse, and therefore I had better make an end;

enough.

PHAEDRUS: I thought that you were only half-way and were going to make a similar

speech about all the advantages of accepting the non-lover. Why do you not proceed?

SOCRATES: Does not your simplicity observe that I have got out of dithyrambics into

heroics, when only uttering a censure on the lover? And if I am to add the praises of the

non-lover what will become of me? Do you not perceive that I am already overtaken by

the Nymphs to whom you have mischievously exposed me? And therefore I will only

add that the non-lover has all the advantages in which the lover is accused of being

deficient. And now I will say no more; there has been enough of both of them. Leaving

the tale to its fate, I will cross the river and make the best of my way home, lest a worse

thing be inflicted upon me by you.

PHAEDRUS: Not yet, Socrates; not until the heat of the day has passed; do you not see

that the hour is almost noon? there is the midday sun standing still, as people say, in the

meridian. Let us rather stay and talk over what has been said, and then return in the

cool.

SOCRATES: Your love of discourse, Phaedrus, is superhuman, simply marvellous, and I

do not believe that there is any one of your contemporaries who has either made or in

one way or another has compelled others to make an equal number of speeches. I

would except Simmias the Theban, but all the rest are far behind you. And now I do

verily believe that you have been the cause of another.

PHAEDRUS: That is good news. But what do you mean?

SOCRATES: I mean to say that as I was about to cross the stream the usual sign was

given to me,—that sign which always forbids, but never bids, me to do anything which I

am going to do; and I thought that I heard a voice saying in my ear that I had been

guilty of impiety, and that I must not go away until I had made an atonement. Now I am

a diviner, though not a very good one, but I have enough religion for my own use, as

you might say of a bad writer—his writing is good enough for him; and I am beginning

to see that I was in error. O my friend, how prophetic is the human soul! At the time I

had a sort of misgiving, and, like Ibycus, 'I was troubled; I feared that I might be buying

honour from men at the price of sinning against the gods.' Now I recognize my error.

PHAEDRUS: What error?

SOCRATES: That was a dreadful speech which you brought with you, and you made me

utter one as bad.

PHAEDRUS: How so?

SOCRATES: It was foolish, I say,—to a certain extent, impious; can anything be more

dreadful?

PHAEDRUS: Nothing, if the speech was really such as you describe.

SOCRATES: Well, and is not Eros the son of Aphrodite, and a god?

PHAEDRUS: So men say.

SOCRATES: But that was not acknowledged by Lysias in his speech, nor by you in that

other speech which you by a charm drew from my lips. For if love be, as he surely is, a

divinity, he cannot be evil. Yet this was the error of both the speeches. There was also a

simplicity about them which was refreshing; having no truth or honesty in them,

nevertheless they pretended to be something, hoping to succeed in deceiving the

manikins of earth and gain celebrity among them. Wherefore I must have a purgation.

And I bethink me of an ancient purgation of mythological error which was devised, not

by Homer, for he never had the wit to discover why he was blind, but by Stesichorus,

who was a philosopher and knew the reason why; and therefore, when he lost his eyes,

for that was the penalty which was inflicted upon him for reviling the lovely Helen, he at

once purged himself. And the purgation was a recantation, which began thus,—

'False is that word of mine—the truth is that thou didst not embark in ships, nor ever go

to the walls of Troy;'

and when he had completed his poem, which is called 'the recantation,' immediately his

sight returned to him. Now I will be wiser than either Stesichorus or Homer, in that I am

going to make my recantation for reviling love before I suffer; and this I will attempt, not

as before, veiled and ashamed, but with forehead bold and bare.

PHAEDRUS: Nothing could be more agreeable to me than to hear you say so.

SOCRATES: Only think, my good Phaedrus, what an utter want of delicacy was shown in

the two discourses; I mean, in my own and in that which you recited out of the book.

Would not any one who was himself of a noble and gentle nature, and who loved or

ever had loved a nature like his own, when we tell of the petty causes of lovers'

jealousies, and of their exceeding animosities, and of the injuries which they do to their

beloved, have imagined that our ideas of love were taken from some haunt of sailors to

which good manners were unknown—he would certainly never have admitted the

justice of our censure?

PHAEDRUS: I dare say not, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Therefore, because I blush at the thought of this person, and also because I

am afraid of Love himself, I desire to wash the brine out of my ears with water from the

spring; and I would counsel Lysias not to delay, but to write another discourse, which

shall prove that 'ceteris paribus' the lover ought to be accepted rather than the nonlover.

PHAEDRUS: Be assured that he shall. You shall speak the praises of the lover, and Lysias

shall be compelled by me to write another discourse on the same theme.

SOCRATES: You will be true to your nature in that, and therefore I believe you.

PHAEDRUS: Speak, and fear not.

SOCRATES: But where is the fair youth whom I was addressing before, and who ought to

listen now; lest, if he hear me not, he should accept a non- lover before he knows what

he is doing?

PHAEDRUS: He is close at hand, and always at your service.

SOCRATES: Know then, fair youth, that the former discourse was the word of Phaedrus,

the son of Vain Man, who dwells in the city of Myrrhina (Myrrhinusius). And this which I

am about to utter is the recantation of Stesichorus the son of Godly Man (Euphemus),

who comes from the town of Desire (Himera), and is to the following effect: 'I told a lie

when I said' that the beloved ought to accept the non-lover when he might have the

lover, because the one is sane, and the other mad. It might be so if madness were

simply an evil; but there is also a madness which is a divine gift, and the source of the

chiefest blessings granted to men. For prophecy is a madness, and the prophetess at

Delphi and the priestesses at Dodona when out of their senses have conferred great

benefits on Hellas, both in public and private life, but when in their senses few or none.

And I might also tell you how the Sibyl and other inspired persons have given to many

an one many an intimation of the future which has saved them from falling. But it would

be tedious to speak of what every one knows.

There will be more reason in appealing to the ancient inventors of names (compare

Cratylus), who would never have connected prophecy (mantike) which foretells the

future and is the noblest of arts, with madness (manike), or called them both by the

same name, if they had deemed madness to be a disgrace or dishonour;—they must

have thought that there was an inspired madness which was a noble thing; for the two

words, mantike and manike, are really the same, and the letter tau is only a modern and

tasteless insertion. And this is confirmed by the name which was given by them to the

rational investigation of futurity, whether made by the help of birds or of other signs—

this, for as much as it is an art which supplies from the reasoning faculty mind (nous)

and information (istoria) to human thought (oiesis) they originally termed oionoistike,

but the word has been lately altered and made sonorous by the modern introduction of

the letter Omega (oionoistike and oionistike), and in proportion as prophecy (mantike) is

more perfect and august than augury, both in name and fact, in the same proportion, as

the ancients testify, is madness superior to a sane mind (sophrosune) for the one is only

of human, but the other of divine origin. Again, where plagues and mightiest woes have

bred in certain families, owing to some ancient blood-guiltiness, there madness has

entered with holy prayers and rites, and by inspired utterances found a way of

deliverance for those who are in need; and he who has part in this gift, and is truly

possessed and duly out of his mind, is by the use of purifications and mysteries made

whole and exempt from evil, future as well as present, and has a release from the

calamity which was afflicting him. The third kind is the madness of those who are

possessed by the Muses; which taking hold of a delicate and virgin soul, and there

inspiring frenzy, awakens lyrical and all other numbers; with these adorning the myriad

actions of ancient heroes for the instruction of posterity. But he who, having no touch of

the Muses' madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks that he will get into the

temple by the help of art—he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man

disappears and is nowhere when he enters into rivalry with the madman.

I might tell of many other noble deeds which have sprung from inspired madness. And

therefore, let no one frighten or flutter us by saying that the temperate friend is to be

chosen rather than the inspired, but let him further show that love is not sent by the

gods for any good to lover or beloved; if he can do so we will allow him to carry off the

palm. And we, on our part, will prove in answer to him that the madness of love is the

greatest of heaven's blessings, and the proof shall be one which the wise will receive,

and the witling disbelieve. But first of all, let us view the affections and actions of the

soul divine and human, and try to ascertain the truth about them. The beginning of our

proof is as follows:-

(Translated by Cic. Tus. Quaest.) The soul through all her being is immortal, for that

which is ever in motion is immortal; but that which moves another and is moved by

another, in ceasing to move ceases also to live. Only the self-moving, never leaving self,

never ceases to move, and is the fountain and beginning of motion to all that moves

besides. Now, the beginning is unbegotten, for that which is begotten has a beginning;

but the beginning is begotten of nothing, for if it were begotten of something, then the

begotten would not come from a beginning. But if unbegotten, it must also be

indestructible; for if beginning were destroyed, there could be no beginning out of

anything, nor anything out of a beginning; and all things must have a beginning. And

therefore the self- moving is the beginning of motion; and this can neither be destroyed

nor begotten, else the whole heavens and all creation would collapse and stand still, and

never again have motion or birth. But if the self-moving is proved to be immortal, he

who affirms that self-motion is the very idea and essence of the soul will not be put to

confusion. For the body which is moved from without is soulless; but that which is

moved from within has a soul, for such is the nature of the soul. But if this be true, must

not the soul be the self-moving, and therefore of necessity unbegotten and immortal?

Enough of the soul's immortality.

Of the nature of the soul, though her true form be ever a theme of large and more than

mortal discourse, let me speak briefly, and in a figure. And let the figure be composite—

a pair of winged horses and a charioteer. Now the winged horses and the charioteers of

the gods are all of them noble and of noble descent, but those of other races are mixed;

the human charioteer drives his in a pair; and one of them is noble and of noble breed,

and the other is ignoble and of ignoble breed; and the driving of them of necessity

gives a great deal of trouble to him. I will endeavour to explain to you in what way the

mortal differs from the immortal creature. The soul in her totality has the care of

inanimate being everywhere, and traverses the whole heaven in divers forms

appearing—when perfect and fully winged she soars upward, and orders the whole

world; whereas the imperfect soul, losing her wings and drooping in her flight at last

settles on the solid ground—there, finding a home, she receives an earthly frame which

appears to be self-moved, but is really moved by her power; and this composition of

soul and body is called a living and mortal creature. For immortal no such union can be

reasonably believed to be; although fancy, not having seen nor surely known the nature

of God, may imagine an immortal creature having both a body and also a soul which are

united throughout all time. Let that, however, be as God wills, and be spoken of

acceptably to him. And now let us ask the reason why the soul loses her wings!

The wing is the corporeal element which is most akin to the divine, and which by nature

tends to soar aloft and carry that which gravitates downwards into the upper region,

which is the habitation of the gods. The divine is beauty, wisdom, goodness, and the

like; and by these the wing of the soul is nourished, and grows apace; but when fed

upon evil and foulness and the opposite of good, wastes and falls away. Zeus, the

mighty lord, holding the reins of a winged chariot, leads the way in heaven, ordering all

and taking care of all; and there follows him the array of gods and demi-gods,

marshalled in eleven bands; Hestia alone abides at home in the house of heaven; of the

rest they who are reckoned among the princely twelve march in their appointed order.

They see many blessed sights in the inner heaven, and there are many ways to and fro,

along which the blessed gods are passing, every one doing his own work; he may follow

who will and can, for jealousy has no place in the celestial choir. But when they go to

banquet and festival, then they move up the steep to the top of the vault of heaven. The

chariots of the gods in even poise, obeying the rein, glide rapidly; but the others labour,

for the vicious steed goes heavily, weighing down the charioteer to the earth when his

steed has not been thoroughly trained:—and this is the hour of agony and extremest

conflict for the soul. For the immortals, when they are at the end of their course, go

forth and stand upon the outside of heaven, and the revolution of the spheres carries

them round, and they behold the things beyond. But of the heaven which is above the

heavens, what earthly poet ever did or ever will sing worthily? It is such as I will describe;

for I must dare to speak the truth, when truth is my theme. There abides the very being

with which true knowledge is concerned; the colourless, formless, intangible essence,

visible only to mind, the pilot of the soul. The divine intelligence, being nurtured upon

mind and pure knowledge, and the intelligence of every soul which is capable of

receiving the food proper to it, rejoices at beholding reality, and once more gazing upon

truth, is replenished and made glad, until the revolution of the worlds brings her round

again to the same place. In the revolution she beholds justice, and temperance, and

knowledge absolute, not in the form of generation or of relation, which men call

existence, but knowledge absolute in existence absolute; and beholding the other true

existences in like manner, and feasting upon them, she passes down into the interior of

the heavens and returns home; and there the charioteer putting up his horses at the

stall, gives them ambrosia to eat and nectar to drink.

Such is the life of the gods; but of other souls, that which follows God best and is likest

to him lifts the head of the charioteer into the outer world, and is carried round in the

revolution, troubled indeed by the steeds, and with difficulty beholding true being; while

another only rises and falls, and sees, and again fails to see by reason of the unruliness

of the steeds. The rest of the souls are also longing after the upper world and they all

follow, but not being strong enough they are carried round below the surface, plunging,

treading on one another, each striving to be first; and there is confusion and

perspiration and the extremity of effort; and many of them are lamed or have their

wings broken through the ill- driving of the charioteers; and all of them after a fruitless

toil, not having attained to the mysteries of true being, go away, and feed upon opinion.

The reason why the souls exhibit this exceeding eagerness to behold the plain of truth is

that pasturage is found there, which is suited to the highest part of the soul; and the

wing on which the soul soars is nourished with this. And there is a law of Destiny, that

the soul which attains any vision of truth in company with a god is preserved from harm

until the next period, and if attaining always is always unharmed. But when she is unable

to follow, and fails to behold the truth, and through some ill-hap sinks beneath the

double load of forgetfulness and vice, and her wings fall from her and she drops to the

ground, then the law ordains that this soul shall at her first birth pass, not into any other

animal, but only into man; and the soul which has seen most of truth shall come to the

birth as a philosopher, or artist, or some musical and loving nature; that which has seen

truth in the second degree shall be some righteous king or warrior chief; the soul which

is of the third class shall be a politician, or economist, or trader; the fourth shall be a

lover of gymnastic toils, or a physician; the fifth shall lead the life of a prophet or

hierophant; to the sixth the character of poet or some other imitative artist will be

assigned; to the seventh the life of an artisan or husbandman; to the eighth that of a

sophist or demagogue; to the ninth that of a tyrant—all these are states of probation, in

which he who does righteously improves, and he who does unrighteously, deteriorates

his lot.

Ten thousand years must elapse before the soul of each one can return to the place

from whence she came, for she cannot grow her wings in less; only the soul of a

philosopher, guileless and true, or the soul of a lover, who is not devoid of philosophy,

may acquire wings in the third of the recurring periods of a thousand years; he is

distinguished from the ordinary good man who gains wings in three thousand years:—

and they who choose this life three times in succession have wings given them, and go

away at the end of three thousand years. But the others (The philosopher alone is not

subject to judgment (krisis), for he has never lost the vision of truth.) receive judgment

when they have completed their first life, and after the judgment they go, some of them

to the houses of correction which are under the earth, and are punished; others to some

place in heaven whither they are lightly borne by justice, and there they live in a manner

worthy of the life which they led here when in the form of men. And at the end of the

first thousand years the good souls and also the evil souls both come to draw lots and

choose their second life, and they may take any which they please. The soul of a man

may pass into the life of a beast, or from the beast return again into the man. But the

soul which has never seen the truth will not pass into the human form. For a man must

have intelligence of universals, and be able to proceed from the many particulars of

sense to one conception of reason;—this is the recollection of those things which our

soul once saw while following God—when regardless of that which we now call being

she raised her head up towards the true being. And therefore the mind of the

philosopher alone has wings; and this is just, for he is always, according to the measure

of his abilities, clinging in recollection to those things in which God abides, and in

beholding which He is what He is. And he who employs aright these memories is ever

being initiated into perfect mysteries and alone becomes truly perfect. But, as he forgets

earthly interests and is rapt in the divine, the vulgar deem him mad, and rebuke him;

they do not see that he is inspired.

Thus far I have been speaking of the fourth and last kind of madness, which is imputed

to him who, when he sees the beauty of earth, is transported with the recollection of the

true beauty; he would like to fly away, but he cannot; he is like a bird fluttering and

looking upward and careless of the world below; and he is therefore thought to be mad.

And I have shown this of all inspirations to be the noblest and highest and the offspring

of the highest to him who has or shares in it, and that he who loves the beautiful is

called a lover because he partakes of it. For, as has been already said, every soul of man

has in the way of nature beheld true being; this was the condition of her passing into

the form of man. But all souls do not easily recall the things of the other world; they may

have seen them for a short time only, or they may have been unfortunate in their earthly

lot, and, having had their hearts turned to unrighteousness through some corrupting

influence, they may have lost the memory of the holy things which once they saw. Few

only retain an adequate remembrance of them; and they, when they behold here any

image of that other world, are rapt in amazement; but they are ignorant of what this

rapture means, because they do not clearly perceive. For there is no light of justice or

temperance or any of the higher ideas which are precious to souls in the earthly copies

of them: they are seen through a glass dimly; and there are few who, going to the

images, behold in them the realities, and these only with difficulty. There was a time

when with the rest of the happy band they saw beauty shining in brightness,—we

philosophers following in the train of Zeus, others in company with other gods; and then

we beheld the beatific vision and were initiated into a mystery which may be truly called

most blessed, celebrated by us in our state of innocence, before we had any experience

of evils to come, when we were admitted to the sight of apparitions innocent and simple

and calm and happy, which we beheld shining in pure light, pure ourselves and not yet

enshrined in that living tomb which we carry about, now that we are imprisoned in the

body, like an oyster in his shell. Let me linger over the memory of scenes which have

passed away.

But of beauty, I repeat again that we saw her there shining in company with the celestial

forms; and coming to earth we find her here too, shining in clearness through the

clearest aperture of sense. For sight is the most piercing of our bodily senses; though

not by that is wisdom seen; her loveliness would have been transporting if there had

been a visible image of her, and the other ideas, if they had visible counterparts, would

be equally lovely. But this is the privilege of beauty, that being the loveliest she is also

the most palpable to sight. Now he who is not newly initiated or who has become

corrupted, does not easily rise out of this world to the sight of true beauty in the other;

he looks only at her earthly namesake, and instead of being awed at the sight of her, he

is given over to pleasure, and like a brutish beast he rushes on to enjoy and beget; he

consorts with wantonness, and is not afraid or ashamed of pursuing pleasure in violation

of nature. But he whose initiation is recent, and who has been the spectator of many

glories in the other world, is amazed when he sees any one having a godlike face or

form, which is the expression of divine beauty; and at first a shudder runs through him,

and again the old awe steals over him; then looking upon the face of his beloved as of a

god he reverences him, and if he were not afraid of being thought a downright

madman, he would sacrifice to his beloved as to the image of a god; then while he

gazes on him there is a sort of reaction, and the shudder passes into an unusual heat

and perspiration; for, as he receives the effluence of beauty through the eyes, the wing

moistens and he warms. And as he warms, the parts out of which the wing grew, and

which had been hitherto closed and rigid, and had prevented the wing from shooting

forth, are melted, and as nourishment streams upon him, the lower end of the wing

begins to swell and grow from the root upwards; and the growth extends under the

whole soul—for once the whole was winged. During this process the whole soul is all in

a state of ebullition and effervescence,—which may be compared to the irritation and

uneasiness in the gums at the time of cutting teeth,—bubbles up, and has a feeling of

uneasiness and tickling; but when in like manner the soul is beginning to grow wings,

the beauty of the beloved meets her eye and she receives the sensible warm motion of

particles which flow towards her, therefore called emotion (imeros), and is refreshed and

warmed by them, and then she ceases from her pain with joy. But when she is parted

from her beloved and her moisture fails, then the orifices of the passage out of which

the wing shoots dry up and close, and intercept the germ of the wing; which, being shut

up with the emotion, throbbing as with the pulsations of an artery, pricks the aperture

which is nearest, until at length the entire soul is pierced and maddened and pained,

and at the recollection of beauty is again delighted. And from both of them together the

soul is oppressed at the strangeness of her condition, and is in a great strait and

excitement, and in her madness can neither sleep by night nor abide in her place by day.

And wherever she thinks that she will behold the beautiful one, thither in her desire she

runs. And when she has seen him, and bathed herself in the waters of beauty, her

constraint is loosened, and she is refreshed, and has no more pangs and pains; and this

is the sweetest of all pleasures at the time, and is the reason why the soul of the lover

will never forsake his beautiful one, whom he esteems above all; he has forgotten

mother and brethren and companions, and he thinks nothing of the neglect and loss of

his property; the rules and proprieties of life, on which he formerly prided himself, he

now despises, and is ready to sleep like a servant, wherever he is allowed, as near as he

can to his desired one, who is the object of his worship, and the physician who can

alone assuage the greatness of his pain. And this state, my dear imaginary youth to

whom I am talking, is by men called love, and among the gods has a name at which you,

in your simplicity, may be inclined to mock; there are two lines in the apocryphal

writings of Homer in which the name occurs. One of them is rather outrageous, and not

altogether metrical. They are as follows:

'Mortals call him fluttering love, But the immortals call him winged one, Because the

growing of wings (Or, reading pterothoiton, 'the movement of wings.') is a necessity to

him.'

You may believe this, but not unless you like. At any rate the loves of lovers and their

causes are such as I have described.

Now the lover who is taken to be the attendant of Zeus is better able to bear the

winged god, and can endure a heavier burden; but the attendants and companions of

Ares, when under the influence of love, if they fancy that they have been at all wronged,

are ready to kill and put an end to themselves and their beloved. And he who follows in

the train of any other god, while he is unspoiled and the impression lasts, honours and

imitates him, as far as he is able; and after the manner of his God he behaves in his

intercourse with his beloved and with the rest of the world during the first period of his

earthly existence. Every one chooses his love from the ranks of beauty according to his

character, and this he makes his god, and fashions and adorns as a sort of image which

he is to fall down and worship. The followers of Zeus desire that their beloved should

have a soul like him; and therefore they seek out some one of a philosophical and

imperial nature, and when they have found him and loved him, they do all they can to

confirm such a nature in him, and if they have no experience of such a disposition

hitherto, they learn of any one who can teach them, and themselves follow in the same

way. And they have the less difficulty in finding the nature of their own god in

themselves, because they have been compelled to gaze intensely on him; their

recollection clings to him, and they become possessed of him, and receive from him

their character and disposition, so far as man can participate in God. The qualities of

their god they attribute to the beloved, wherefore they love him all the more, and if, like

the Bacchic Nymphs, they draw inspiration from Zeus, they pour out their own fountain

upon him, wanting to make him as like as possible to their own god. But those who are

the followers of Here seek a royal love, and when they have found him they do just the

same with him; and in like manner the followers of Apollo, and of every other god

walking in the ways of their god, seek a love who is to be made like him whom they

serve, and when they have found him, they themselves imitate their god, and persuade

their love to do the same, and educate him into the manner and nature of the god as far

as they each can; for no feelings of envy or jealousy are entertained by them towards

their beloved, but they do their utmost to create in him the greatest likeness of

themselves and of the god whom they honour. Thus fair and blissful to the beloved is

the desire of the inspired lover, and the initiation of which I speak into the mysteries of

true love, if he be captured by the lover and their purpose is effected. Now the beloved

is taken captive in the following manner:—

As I said at the beginning of this tale, I divided each soul into three— two horses and a

charioteer; and one of the horses was good and the other bad: the division may remain,

but I have not yet explained in what the goodness or badness of either consists, and to

that I will now proceed. The right-hand horse is upright and cleanly made; he has a lofty

neck and an aquiline nose; his colour is white, and his eyes dark; he is a lover of honour

and modesty and temperance, and the follower of true glory; he needs no touch of the

whip, but is guided by word and admonition only. The other is a crooked lumbering

animal, put together anyhow; he has a short thick neck; he is flat-faced and of a dark

colour, with grey eyes and blood-red complexion (Or with grey and blood-shot eyes.);

the mate of insolence and pride, shag-eared and deaf, hardly yielding to whip and spur.

Now when the charioteer beholds the vision of love, and has his whole soul warmed

through sense, and is full of the prickings and ticklings of desire, the obedient steed,

then as always under the government of shame, refrains from leaping on the beloved;

but the other, heedless of the pricks and of the blows of the whip, plunges and runs

away, giving all manner of trouble to his companion and the charioteer, whom he forces

to approach the beloved and to remember the joys of love. They at first indignantly

oppose him and will not be urged on to do terrible and unlawful deeds; but at last,

when he persists in plaguing them, they yield and agree to do as he bids them. And now

they are at the spot and behold the flashing beauty of the beloved; which when the

charioteer sees, his memory is carried to the true beauty, whom he beholds in company

with Modesty like an image placed upon a holy pedestal. He sees her, but he is afraid

and falls backwards in adoration, and by his fall is compelled to pull back the reins with

such violence as to bring both the steeds on their haunches, the one willing and

unresisting, the unruly one very unwilling; and when they have gone back a little, the

one is overcome with shame and wonder, and his whole soul is bathed in perspiration;

the other, when the pain is over which the bridle and the fall had given him, having with

difficulty taken breath, is full of wrath and reproaches, which he heaps upon the

charioteer and his fellow- steed, for want of courage and manhood, declaring that they

have been false to their agreement and guilty of desertion. Again they refuse, and again

he urges them on, and will scarce yield to their prayer that he would wait until another

time. When the appointed hour comes, they make as if they had forgotten, and he

reminds them, fighting and neighing and dragging them on, until at length he on the

same thoughts intent, forces them to draw near again. And when they are near he

stoops his head and puts up his tail, and takes the bit in his teeth and pulls shamelessly.

Then the charioteer is worse off than ever; he falls back like a racer at the barrier, and

with a still more violent wrench drags the bit out of the teeth of the wild steed and

covers his abusive tongue and jaws with blood, and forces his legs and haunches to the

ground and punishes him sorely. And when this has happened several times and the

villain has ceased from his wanton way, he is tamed and humbled, and follows the will of

the charioteer, and when he sees the beautiful one he is ready to die of fear. And from

that time forward the soul of the lover follows the beloved in modesty and holy fear.

And so the beloved who, like a god, has received every true and loyal service from his

lover, not in pretence but in reality, being also himself of a nature friendly to his admirer,

if in former days he has blushed to own his passion and turned away his lover, because

his youthful companions or others slanderously told him that he would be disgraced,

now as years advance, at the appointed age and time, is led to receive him into

communion. For fate which has ordained that there shall be no friendship among the

evil has also ordained that there shall ever be friendship among the good. And the

beloved when he has received him into communion and intimacy, is quite amazed at the

good-will of the lover; he recognises that the inspired friend is worth all other friends or

kinsmen; they have nothing of friendship in them worthy to be compared with his. And

when this feeling continues and he is nearer to him and embraces him, in gymnastic

exercises and at other times of meeting, then the fountain of that stream, which Zeus

when he was in love with Ganymede named Desire, overflows upon the lover, and some

enters into his soul, and some when he is filled flows out again; and as a breeze or an

echo rebounds from the smooth rocks and returns whence it came, so does the stream

of beauty, passing through the eyes which are the windows of the soul, come back to

the beautiful one; there arriving and quickening the passages of the wings, watering

them and inclining them to grow, and filling the soul of the beloved also with love. And

thus he loves, but he knows not what; he does not understand and cannot explain his

own state; he appears to have caught the infection of blindness from another; the lover

is his mirror in whom he is beholding himself, but he is not aware of this. When he is

with the lover, both cease from their pain, but when he is away then he longs as he is

longed for, and has love's image, love for love (Anteros) lodging in his breast, which he

calls and believes to be not love but friendship only, and his desire is as the desire of the

other, but weaker; he wants to see him, touch him, kiss him, embrace him, and probably

not long afterwards his desire is accomplished. When they meet, the wanton steed of

the lover has a word to say to the charioteer; he would like to have a little pleasure in

return for many pains, but the wanton steed of the beloved says not a word, for he is

bursting with passion which he understands not;—he throws his arms round the lover

and embraces him as his dearest friend; and, when they are side by side, he is not in a

state in which he can refuse the lover anything, if he ask him; although his fellow-steed

and the charioteer oppose him with the arguments of shame and reason. After this their

happiness depends upon their self-control; if the better elements of the mind which

lead to order and philosophy prevail, then they pass their life here in happiness and

harmony—masters of themselves and orderly—enslaving the vicious and emancipating

the virtuous elements of the soul; and when the end comes, they are light and winged

for flight, having conquered in one of the three heavenly or truly Olympian victories; nor

can human discipline or divine inspiration confer any greater blessing on man than this.

If, on the other hand, they leave philosophy and lead the lower life of ambition, then

probably, after wine or in some other careless hour, the two wanton animals take the

two souls when off their guard and bring them together, and they accomplish that

desire of their hearts which to the many is bliss; and this having once enjoyed they

continue to enjoy, yet rarely because they have not the approval of the whole soul. They

too are dear, but not so dear to one another as the others, either at the time of their

love or afterwards. They consider that they have given and taken from each other the

most sacred pledges, and they may not break them and fall into enmity. At last they

pass out of the body, unwinged, but eager to soar, and thus obtain no mean reward of

love and madness. For those who have once begun the heavenward pilgrimage may not

go down again to darkness and the journey beneath the earth, but they live in light

always; happy companions in their pilgrimage, and when the time comes at which they

receive their wings they have the same plumage because of their love.

Thus great are the heavenly blessings which the friendship of a lover will confer upon

you, my youth. Whereas the attachment of the non-lover, which is alloyed with a worldly

prudence and has worldly and niggardly ways of doling out benefits, will breed in your

soul those vulgar qualities which the populace applaud, will send you bowling round the

earth during a period of nine thousand years, and leave you a fool in the world below.

And thus, dear Eros, I have made and paid my recantation, as well and as fairly as I

could; more especially in the matter of the poetical figures which I was compelled to

use, because Phaedrus would have them. And now forgive the past and accept the

present, and be gracious and merciful to me, and do not in thine anger deprive me of

sight, or take from me the art of love which thou hast given me, but grant that I may be

yet more esteemed in the eyes of the fair. And if Phaedrus or I myself said anything rude

in our first speeches, blame Lysias, who is the father of the brat, and let us have no more

of his progeny; bid him study philosophy, like his brother Polemarchus; and then his

lover Phaedrus will no longer halt between two opinions, but will dedicate himself

wholly to love and to philosophical discourses.

PHAEDRUS: I join in the prayer, Socrates, and say with you, if this be for my good, may

your words come to pass. But why did you make your second oration so much finer than

the first? I wonder why. And I begin to be afraid that I shall lose conceit of Lysias, and

that he will appear tame in comparison, even if he be willing to put another as fine and

as long as yours into the field, which I doubt. For quite lately one of your politicians was

abusing him on this very account; and called him a 'speech writer' again and again. So

that a feeling of pride may probably induce him to give up writing speeches.

SOCRATES: What a very amusing notion! But I think, my young man, that you are much

mistaken in your friend if you imagine that he is frightened at a little noise; and,

possibly, you think that his assailant was in earnest?

PHAEDRUS: I thought, Socrates, that he was. And you are aware that the greatest and

most influential statesmen are ashamed of writing speeches and leaving them in a

written form, lest they should be called Sophists by posterity.

SOCRATES: You seem to be unconscious, Phaedrus, that the 'sweet elbow' (A proverb,

like 'the grapes are sour,' applied to pleasures which cannot be had, meaning sweet

things which, like the elbow, are out of the reach of the mouth. The promised pleasure

turns out to be a long and tedious affair.) of the proverb is really the long arm of the

Nile. And you appear to be equally unaware of the fact that this sweet elbow of theirs is

also a long arm. For there is nothing of which our great politicians are so fond as of

writing speeches and bequeathing them to posterity. And they add their admirers'

names at the top of the writing, out of gratitude to them.

PHAEDRUS: What do you mean? I do not understand.

SOCRATES: Why, do you not know that when a politician writes, he begins with the

names of his approvers?

PHAEDRUS: How so?

SOCRATES: Why, he begins in this manner: 'Be it enacted by the senate, the people, or

both, on the motion of a certain person,' who is our author; and so putting on a serious

face, he proceeds to display his own wisdom to his admirers in what is often a long and

tedious composition. Now what is that sort of thing but a regular piece of authorship?

PHAEDRUS: True.

SOCRATES: And if the law is finally approved, then the author leaves the theatre in high

delight; but if the law is rejected and he is done out of his speech-making, and not

thought good enough to write, then he and his party are in mourning.

PHAEDRUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: So far are they from despising, or rather so highly do they value the practice

of writing.

PHAEDRUS: No doubt.

SOCRATES: And when the king or orator has the power, as Lycurgus or Solon or Darius

had, of attaining an immortality or authorship in a state, is he not thought by posterity,

when they see his compositions, and does he not think himself, while he is yet alive, to

be a god?

PHAEDRUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then do you think that any one of this class, however ill- disposed, would

reproach Lysias with being an author?

PHAEDRUS: Not upon your view; for according to you he would be casting a slur upon

his own favourite pursuit.

SOCRATES: Any one may see that there is no disgrace in the mere fact of writing.

PHAEDRUS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: The disgrace begins when a man writes not well, but badly.

PHAEDRUS: Clearly.

SOCRATES: And what is well and what is badly—need we ask Lysias, or any other poet or

orator, who ever wrote or will write either a political or any other work, in metre or out

of metre, poet or prose writer, to teach us this?

PHAEDRUS: Need we? For what should a man live if not for the pleasures of discourse?

Surely not for the sake of bodily pleasures, which almost always have previous pain as a

condition of them, and therefore are rightly called slavish.

SOCRATES: There is time enough. And I believe that the grasshoppers chirruping after

their manner in the heat of the sun over our heads are talking to one another and

looking down at us. What would they say if they saw that we, like the many, are not

conversing, but slumbering at mid-day, lulled by their voices, too indolent to think?

Would they not have a right to laugh at us? They might imagine that we were slaves,

who, coming to rest at a place of resort of theirs, like sheep lie asleep at noon around

the well. But if they see us discoursing, and like Odysseus sailing past them, deaf to their

siren voices, they may perhaps, out of respect, give us of the gifts which they receive

from the gods that they may impart them to men.

PHAEDRUS: What gifts do you mean? I never heard of any.

SOCRATES: A lover of music like yourself ought surely to have heard the story of the

grasshoppers, who are said to have been human beings in an age before the Muses.

And when the Muses came and song appeared they were ravished with delight; and

singing always, never thought of eating and drinking, until at last in their forgetfulness

they died. And now they live again in the grasshoppers; and this is the return which the

Muses make to them—they neither hunger, nor thirst, but from the hour of their birth

are always singing, and never eating or drinking; and when they die they go and inform

the Muses in heaven who honours them on earth. They win the love of Terpsichore for

the dancers by their report of them; of Erato for the lovers, and of the other Muses for

those who do them honour, according to the several ways of honouring them;—of

Calliope the eldest Muse and of Urania who is next to her, for the philosophers, of

whose music the grasshoppers make report to them; for these are the Muses who are

chiefly concerned with heaven and thought, divine as well as human, and they have the

sweetest utterance. For many reasons, then, we ought always to talk and not to sleep at

mid-day.

PHAEDRUS: Let us talk.

SOCRATES: Shall we discuss the rules of writing and speech as we were proposing?

PHAEDRUS: Very good.

SOCRATES: In good speaking should not the mind of the speaker know the truth of the

matter about which he is going to speak?

PHAEDRUS: And yet, Socrates, I have heard that he who would be an orator has nothing

to do with true justice, but only with that which is likely to be approved by the many

who sit in judgment; nor with the truly good or honourable, but only with opinion about

them, and that from opinion comes persuasion, and not from the truth.

SOCRATES: The words of the wise are not to be set aside; for there is probably

something in them; and therefore the meaning of this saying is not hastily to be

dismissed.

PHAEDRUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: Let us put the matter thus:—Suppose that I persuaded you to buy a horse

and go to the wars. Neither of us knew what a horse was like, but I knew that you

believed a horse to be of tame animals the one which has the longest ears.

PHAEDRUS: That would be ridiculous.

SOCRATES: There is something more ridiculous coming:—Suppose, further, that in sober

earnest I, having persuaded you of this, went and composed a speech in honour of an

ass, whom I entitled a horse beginning: 'A noble animal and a most useful possession,

especially in war, and you may get on his back and fight, and he will carry baggage or

anything.'

PHAEDRUS: How ridiculous!

SOCRATES: Ridiculous! Yes; but is not even a ridiculous friend better than a cunning

enemy?

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And when the orator instead of putting an ass in the place of a horse, puts

good for evil, being himself as ignorant of their true nature as the city on which he

imposes is ignorant; and having studied the notions of the multitude, falsely persuades

them not about 'the shadow of an ass,' which he confounds with a horse, but about

good which he confounds with evil,—what will be the harvest which rhetoric will be

likely to gather after the sowing of that seed?

PHAEDRUS: The reverse of good.

SOCRATES: But perhaps rhetoric has been getting too roughly handled by us, and she

might answer: What amazing nonsense you are talking! As if I forced any man to learn

to speak in ignorance of the truth! Whatever my advice may be worth, I should have told

him to arrive at the truth first, and then come to me. At the same time I boldly assert

that mere knowledge of the truth will not give you the art of persuasion.

PHAEDRUS: There is reason in the lady's defence of herself.

SOCRATES: Quite true; if only the other arguments which remain to be brought up bear

her witness that she is an art at all. But I seem to hear them arraying themselves on the

opposite side, declaring that she speaks falsely, and that rhetoric is a mere routine and

trick, not an art. Lo! a Spartan appears, and says that there never is nor ever will be a real

art of speaking which is divorced from the truth.

PHAEDRUS: And what are these arguments, Socrates? Bring them out that we may

examine them.

SOCRATES: Come out, fair children, and convince Phaedrus, who is the father of similar

beauties, that he will never be able to speak about anything as he ought to speak unless

he have a knowledge of philosophy. And let Phaedrus answer you.

PHAEDRUS: Put the question.

SOCRATES: Is not rhetoric, taken generally, a universal art of enchanting the mind by

arguments; which is practised not only in courts and public assemblies, but in private

houses also, having to do with all matters, great as well as small, good and bad alike,

and is in all equally right, and equally to be esteemed—that is what you have heard?

PHAEDRUS: Nay, not exactly that; I should say rather that I have heard the art confined

to speaking and writing in lawsuits, and to speaking in public assemblies—not extended

farther.

SOCRATES: Then I suppose that you have only heard of the rhetoric of Nestor and

Odysseus, which they composed in their leisure hours when at Troy, and never of the

rhetoric of Palamedes?

PHAEDRUS: No more than of Nestor and Odysseus, unless Gorgias is your Nestor, and

Thrasymachus or Theodorus your Odysseus.

SOCRATES: Perhaps that is my meaning. But let us leave them. And do you tell me,

instead, what are plaintiff and defendant doing in a law court— are they not

contending?

PHAEDRUS: Exactly so.

SOCRATES: About the just and unjust—that is the matter in dispute?

PHAEDRUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And a professor of the art will make the same thing appear to the same

persons to be at one time just, at another time, if he is so inclined, to be unjust?

PHAEDRUS: Exactly.

SOCRATES: And when he speaks in the assembly, he will make the same things seem

good to the city at one time, and at another time the reverse of good?

PHAEDRUS: That is true.

SOCRATES: Have we not heard of the Eleatic Palamedes (Zeno), who has an art of

speaking by which he makes the same things appear to his hearers like and unlike, one

and many, at rest and in motion?

PHAEDRUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: The art of disputation, then, is not confined to the courts and the assembly,

but is one and the same in every use of language; this is the art, if there be such an art,

which is able to find a likeness of everything to which a likeness can be found, and

draws into the light of day the likenesses and disguises which are used by others?

PHAEDRUS: How do you mean?

SOCRATES: Let me put the matter thus: When will there be more chance of deception—

when the difference is large or small?

PHAEDRUS: When the difference is small.

SOCRATES: And you will be less likely to be discovered in passing by degrees into the

other extreme than when you go all at once?

PHAEDRUS: Of course.

SOCRATES: He, then, who would deceive others, and not be deceived, must exactly

know the real likenesses and differences of things?

PHAEDRUS: He must.

SOCRATES: And if he is ignorant of the true nature of any subject, how can he detect the

greater or less degree of likeness in other things to that of which by the hypothesis he is

ignorant?

PHAEDRUS: He cannot.

SOCRATES: And when men are deceived and their notions are at variance with realities,

it is clear that the error slips in through resemblances?

PHAEDRUS: Yes, that is the way.

SOCRATES: Then he who would be a master of the art must understand the real nature

of everything; or he will never know either how to make the gradual departure from

truth into the opposite of truth which is effected by the help of resemblances, or how to

avoid it?

PHAEDRUS: He will not.

SOCRATES: He then, who being ignorant of the truth aims at appearances, will only

attain an art of rhetoric which is ridiculous and is not an art at all?

PHAEDRUS: That may be expected.

SOCRATES: Shall I propose that we look for examples of art and want of art, according

to our notion of them, in the speech of Lysias which you have in your hand, and in my

own speech?

PHAEDRUS: Nothing could be better; and indeed I think that our previous argument has

been too abstract and wanting in illustrations.

SOCRATES: Yes; and the two speeches happen to afford a very good example of the way

in which the speaker who knows the truth may, without any serious purpose, steal away

the hearts of his hearers. This piece of good- fortune I attribute to the local deities; and,

perhaps, the prophets of the Muses who are singing over our heads may have imparted

their inspiration to me. For I do not imagine that I have any rhetorical art of my own.

PHAEDRUS: Granted; if you will only please to get on.

SOCRATES: Suppose that you read me the first words of Lysias' speech.

PHAEDRUS: 'You know how matters stand with me, and how, as I conceive, they might

be arranged for our common interest; and I maintain that I ought not to fail in my suit,

because I am not your lover. For lovers repent—'

SOCRATES: Enough:—Now, shall I point out the rhetorical error of those words?

PHAEDRUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Every one is aware that about some things we are agreed, whereas about

other things we differ.

PHAEDRUS: I think that I understand you; but will you explain yourself?

SOCRATES: When any one speaks of iron and silver, is not the same thing present in the

minds of all?

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: But when any one speaks of justice and goodness we part company and are

at odds with one another and with ourselves?

PHAEDRUS: Precisely.

SOCRATES: Then in some things we agree, but not in others?

PHAEDRUS: That is true.

SOCRATES: In which are we more likely to be deceived, and in which has rhetoric the

greater power?

PHAEDRUS: Clearly, in the uncertain class.

SOCRATES: Then the rhetorician ought to make a regular division, and acquire a distinct

notion of both classes, as well of that in which the many err, as of that in which they do

not err?

PHAEDRUS: He who made such a distinction would have an excellent principle.

SOCRATES: Yes; and in the next place he must have a keen eye for the observation of

particulars in speaking, and not make a mistake about the class to which they are to be

referred.

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Now to which class does love belong—to the debatable or to the

undisputed class?

PHAEDRUS: To the debatable, clearly; for if not, do you think that love would have

allowed you to say as you did, that he is an evil both to the lover and the beloved, and

also the greatest possible good?

SOCRATES: Capital. But will you tell me whether I defined love at the beginning of my

speech? for, having been in an ecstasy, I cannot well remember.

PHAEDRUS: Yes, indeed; that you did, and no mistake.

SOCRATES: Then I perceive that the Nymphs of Achelous and Pan the son of Hermes,

who inspired me, were far better rhetoricians than Lysias the son of Cephalus. Alas! how

inferior to them he is! But perhaps I am mistaken; and Lysias at the commencement of

his lover's speech did insist on our supposing love to be something or other which he

fancied him to be, and according to this model he fashioned and framed the remainder

of his discourse. Suppose we read his beginning over again:

PHAEDRUS: If you please; but you will not find what you want.

SOCRATES: Read, that I may have his exact words.

PHAEDRUS: 'You know how matters stand with me, and how, as I conceive, they might

be arranged for our common interest; and I maintain I ought not to fail in my suit

because I am not your lover, for lovers repent of the kindnesses which they have shown,

when their love is over.'

SOCRATES: Here he appears to have done just the reverse of what he ought; for he has

begun at the end, and is swimming on his back through the flood to the place of

starting. His address to the fair youth begins where the lover would have ended. Am I

not right, sweet Phaedrus?

PHAEDRUS: Yes, indeed, Socrates; he does begin at the end.

SOCRATES: Then as to the other topics—are they not thrown down anyhow? Is there

any principle in them? Why should the next topic follow next in order, or any other

topic? I cannot help fancying in my ignorance that he wrote off boldly just what came

into his head, but I dare say that you would recognize a rhetorical necessity in the

succession of the several parts of the composition?

PHAEDRUS: You have too good an opinion of me if you think that I have any such

insight into his principles of composition.

SOCRATES: At any rate, you will allow that every discourse ought to be a living creature,

having a body of its own and a head and feet; there should be a middle, beginning, and

end, adapted to one another and to the whole?

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Can this be said of the discourse of Lysias? See whether you can find any

more connexion in his words than in the epitaph which is said by some to have been

inscribed on the grave of Midas the Phrygian.

PHAEDRUS: What is there remarkable in the epitaph?

SOCRATES: It is as follows:—

'I am a maiden of bronze and lie on the tomb of Midas; So long as water flows and tall

trees grow, So long here on this spot by his sad tomb abiding, I shall declare to passersby

that Midas sleeps below.'

Now in this rhyme whether a line comes first or comes last, as you will perceive, makes

no difference.

PHAEDRUS: You are making fun of that oration of ours.

SOCRATES: Well, I will say no more about your friend's speech lest I should give offence

to you; although I think that it might furnish many other examples of what a man ought

rather to avoid. But I will proceed to the other speech, which, as I think, is also

suggestive to students of rhetoric.

PHAEDRUS: In what way?

SOCRATES: The two speeches, as you may remember, were unlike; the one argued that

the lover and the other that the non-lover ought to be accepted.

PHAEDRUS: And right manfully.

SOCRATES: You should rather say 'madly;' and madness was the argument of them, for,

as I said, 'love is a madness.'

PHAEDRUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And of madness there were two kinds; one produced by human infirmity,

the other was a divine release of the soul from the yoke of custom and convention.

PHAEDRUS: True.

SOCRATES: The divine madness was subdivided into four kinds, prophetic, initiatory,

poetic, erotic, having four gods presiding over them; the first was the inspiration of

Apollo, the second that of Dionysus, the third that of the Muses, the fourth that of

Aphrodite and Eros. In the description of the last kind of madness, which was also said

to be the best, we spoke of the affection of love in a figure, into which we introduced a

tolerably credible and possibly true though partly erring myth, which was also a hymn in

honour of Love, who is your lord and also mine, Phaedrus, and the guardian of fair

children, and to him we sung the hymn in measured and solemn strain.

PHAEDRUS: I know that I had great pleasure in listening to you.

SOCRATES: Let us take this instance and note how the transition was made from blame

to praise.

PHAEDRUS: What do you mean?

SOCRATES: I mean to say that the composition was mostly playful. Yet in these chance

fancies of the hour were involved two principles of which we should be too glad to have

a clearer description if art could give us one.

PHAEDRUS: What are they?

SOCRATES: First, the comprehension of scattered particulars in one idea; as in our

definition of love, which whether true or false certainly gave clearness and consistency

to the discourse, the speaker should define his several notions and so make his meaning

clear.

PHAEDRUS: What is the other principle, Socrates?

SOCRATES: The second principle is that of division into species according to the natural

formation, where the joint is, not breaking any part as a bad carver might. Just as our

two discourses, alike assumed, first of all, a single form of unreason; and then, as the

body which from being one becomes double and may be divided into a left side and

right side, each having parts right and left of the same name—after this manner the

speaker proceeded to divide the parts of the left side and did not desist until he found

in them an evil or left-handed love which he justly reviled; and the other discourse

leading us to the madness which lay on the right side, found another love, also having

the same name, but divine, which the speaker held up before us and applauded and

affirmed to be the author of the greatest benefits.

PHAEDRUS: Most true.

SOCRATES: I am myself a great lover of these processes of division and generalization;

they help me to speak and to think. And if I find any man who is able to see 'a One and

Many' in nature, him I follow, and 'walk in his footsteps as if he were a god.' And those

who have this art, I have hitherto been in the habit of calling dialecticians; but God

knows whether the name is right or not. And I should like to know what name you

would give to your or to Lysias' disciples, and whether this may not be that famous art

of rhetoric which Thrasymachus and others teach and practise? Skilful speakers they are,

and impart their skill to any who is willing to make kings of them and to bring gifts to

them.

PHAEDRUS: Yes, they are royal men; but their art is not the same with the art of those

whom you call, and rightly, in my opinion, dialecticians:— Still we are in the dark about

rhetoric.

SOCRATES: What do you mean? The remains of it, if there be anything remaining which

can be brought under rules of art, must be a fine thing; and, at any rate, is not to be

despised by you and me. But how much is left?

PHAEDRUS: There is a great deal surely to be found in books of rhetoric?

SOCRATES: Yes; thank you for reminding me:—There is the exordium, showing how the

speech should begin, if I remember rightly; that is what you mean— the niceties of the

art?

PHAEDRUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then follows the statement of facts, and upon that witnesses; thirdly, proofs;

fourthly, probabilities are to come; the great Byzantian word-maker also speaks, if I am

not mistaken, of confirmation and further confirmation.

PHAEDRUS: You mean the excellent Theodorus.

SOCRATES: Yes; and he tells how refutation or further refutation is to be managed,

whether in accusation or defence. I ought also to mention the illustrious Parian, Evenus,

who first invented insinuations and indirect praises; and also indirect censures, which

according to some he put into verse to help the memory. But shall I 'to dumb

forgetfulness consign' Tisias and Gorgias, who are not ignorant that probability is

superior to truth, and who by force of argument make the little appear great and the

great little, disguise the new in old fashions and the old in new fashions, and have

discovered forms for everything, either short or going on to infinity. I remember

Prodicus laughing when I told him of this; he said that he had himself discovered the

true rule of art, which was to be neither long nor short, but of a convenient length.

PHAEDRUS: Well done, Prodicus!

SOCRATES: Then there is Hippias the Elean stranger, who probably agrees with him.

PHAEDRUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And there is also Polus, who has treasuries of diplasiology, and gnomology,

and eikonology, and who teaches in them the names of which Licymnius made him a

present; they were to give a polish.

PHAEDRUS: Had not Protagoras something of the same sort?

SOCRATES: Yes, rules of correct diction and many other fine precepts; for the 'sorrows of

a poor old man,' or any other pathetic case, no one is better than the Chalcedonian

giant; he can put a whole company of people into a passion and out of one again by his

mighty magic, and is first-rate at inventing or disposing of any sort of calumny on any

grounds or none. All of them agree in asserting that a speech should end in a

recapitulation, though they do not all agree to use the same word.

PHAEDRUS: You mean that there should be a summing up of the arguments in order to

remind the hearers of them.

SOCRATES: I have now said all that I have to say of the art of rhetoric: have you anything

to add?

PHAEDRUS: Not much; nothing very important.

SOCRATES: Leave the unimportant and let us bring the really important question into

the light of day, which is: What power has this art of rhetoric, and when?

PHAEDRUS: A very great power in public meetings.

SOCRATES: It has. But I should like to know whether you have the same feeling as I have

about the rhetoricians? To me there seem to be a great many holes in their web.

PHAEDRUS: Give an example.

SOCRATES: I will. Suppose a person to come to your friend Eryximachus, or to his father

Acumenus, and to say to him: 'I know how to apply drugs which shall have either a

heating or a cooling effect, and I can give a vomit and also a purge, and all that sort of

thing; and knowing all this, as I do, I claim to be a physician and to make physicians by

imparting this knowledge to others,'—what do you suppose that they would say?

PHAEDRUS: They would be sure to ask him whether he knew 'to whom' he would give

his medicines, and 'when,' and 'how much.'

SOCRATES: And suppose that he were to reply: 'No; I know nothing of all that; I expect

the patient who consults me to be able to do these things for himself'?

PHAEDRUS: They would say in reply that he is a madman or a pedant who fancies that

he is a physician because he has read something in a book, or has stumbled on a

prescription or two, although he has no real understanding of the art of medicine.

SOCRATES: And suppose a person were to come to Sophocles or Euripides and say that

he knows how to make a very long speech about a small matter, and a short speech

about a great matter, and also a sorrowful speech, or a terrible, or threatening speech,

or any other kind of speech, and in teaching this fancies that he is teaching the art of

tragedy—?

PHAEDRUS: They too would surely laugh at him if he fancies that tragedy is anything but

the arranging of these elements in a manner which will be suitable to one another and

to the whole.

SOCRATES: But I do not suppose that they would be rude or abusive to him: Would they

not treat him as a musician a man who thinks that he is a harmonist because he knows

how to pitch the highest and lowest note; happening to meet such an one he would not

say to him savagely, 'Fool, you are mad!' But like a musician, in a gentle and harmonious

tone of voice, he would answer: 'My good friend, he who would be a harmonist must

certainly know this, and yet he may understand nothing of harmony if he has not got

beyond your stage of knowledge, for you only know the preliminaries of harmony and

not harmony itself.'

PHAEDRUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And will not Sophocles say to the display of the would-be tragedian, that

this is not tragedy but the preliminaries of tragedy? and will not Acumenus say the same

of medicine to the would-be physician?

PHAEDRUS: Quite true.

SOCRATES: And if Adrastus the mellifluous or Pericles heard of these wonderful arts,

brachylogies and eikonologies and all the hard names which we have been

endeavouring to draw into the light of day, what would they say? Instead of losing

temper and applying uncomplimentary epithets, as you and I have been doing, to the

authors of such an imaginary art, their superior wisdom would rather censure us, as well

as them. 'Have a little patience, Phaedrus and Socrates, they would say; you should not

be in such a passion with those who from some want of dialectical skill are unable to

define the nature of rhetoric, and consequently suppose that they have found the art in

the preliminary conditions of it, and when these have been taught by them to others,

fancy that the whole art of rhetoric has been taught by them; but as to using the several

instruments of the art effectively, or making the composition a whole,—an application of

it such as this is they regard as an easy thing which their disciples may make for

themselves.'

PHAEDRUS: I quite admit, Socrates, that the art of rhetoric which these men teach and

of which they write is such as you describe—there I agree with you. But I still want to

know where and how the true art of rhetoric and persuasion is to be acquired.

SOCRATES: The perfection which is required of the finished orator is, or rather must be,

like the perfection of anything else; partly given by nature, but may also be assisted by

art. If you have the natural power and add to it knowledge and practice, you will be a

distinguished speaker; if you fall short in either of these, you will be to that extent

defective. But the art, as far as there is an art, of rhetoric does not lie in the direction of

Lysias or Thrasymachus.

PHAEDRUS: In what direction then?

SOCRATES: I conceive Pericles to have been the most accomplished of rhetoricians.

PHAEDRUS: What of that?

SOCRATES: All the great arts require discussion and high speculation about the truths of

nature; hence come loftiness of thought and completeness of execution. And this, as I

conceive, was the quality which, in addition to his natural gifts, Pericles acquired from

his intercourse with Anaxagoras whom he happened to know. He was thus imbued with

the higher philosophy, and attained the knowledge of Mind and the negative of Mind,

which were favourite themes of Anaxagoras, and applied what suited his purpose to the

art of speaking.

PHAEDRUS: Explain.

SOCRATES: Rhetoric is like medicine.

PHAEDRUS: How so?

SOCRATES: Why, because medicine has to define the nature of the body and rhetoric of

the soul—if we would proceed, not empirically but scientifically, in the one case to

impart health and strength by giving medicine and food, in the other to implant the

conviction or virtue which you desire, by the right application of words and training.

PHAEDRUS: There, Socrates, I suspect that you are right.

SOCRATES: And do you think that you can know the nature of the soul intelligently

without knowing the nature of the whole?

PHAEDRUS: Hippocrates the Asclepiad says that the nature even of the body can only

be understood as a whole. (Compare Charmides.)

SOCRATES: Yes, friend, and he was right:—still, we ought not to be content with the

name of Hippocrates, but to examine and see whether his argument agrees with his

conception of nature.

PHAEDRUS: I agree.

SOCRATES: Then consider what truth as well as Hippocrates says about this or about any

other nature. Ought we not to consider first whether that which we wish to learn and to

teach is a simple or multiform thing, and if simple, then to enquire what power it has of

acting or being acted upon in relation to other things, and if multiform, then to number

the forms; and see first in the case of one of them, and then in the case of all of them,

what is that power of acting or being acted upon which makes each and all of them to

be what they are?

PHAEDRUS: You may very likely be right, Socrates.

SOCRATES: The method which proceeds without analysis is like the groping of a blind

man. Yet, surely, he who is an artist ought not to admit of a comparison with the blind,

or deaf. The rhetorician, who teaches his pupil to speak scientifically, will particularly set

forth the nature of that being to which he addresses his speeches; and this, I conceive,

to be the soul.

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: His whole effort is directed to the soul; for in that he seeks to produce

conviction.

PHAEDRUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then clearly, Thrasymachus or any one else who teaches rhetoric in earnest

will give an exact description of the nature of the soul; which will enable us to see

whether she be single and same, or, like the body, multiform. That is what we should call

showing the nature of the soul.

PHAEDRUS: Exactly.

SOCRATES: He will explain, secondly, the mode in which she acts or is acted upon.

PHAEDRUS: True.

SOCRATES: Thirdly, having classified men and speeches, and their kinds and affections,

and adapted them to one another, he will tell the reasons of his arrangement, and show

why one soul is persuaded by a particular form of argument, and another not.

PHAEDRUS: You have hit upon a very good way.

SOCRATES: Yes, that is the true and only way in which any subject can be set forth or

treated by rules of art, whether in speaking or writing. But the writers of the present day,

at whose feet you have sat, craftily conceal the nature of the soul which they know quite

well. Nor, until they adopt our method of reading and writing, can we admit that they

write by rules of art?

PHAEDRUS: What is our method?

SOCRATES: I cannot give you the exact details; but I should like to tell you generally, as

far as is in my power, how a man ought to proceed according to rules of art.

PHAEDRUS: Let me hear.

SOCRATES: Oratory is the art of enchanting the soul, and therefore he who would be an

orator has to learn the differences of human souls—they are so many and of such a

nature, and from them come the differences between man and man. Having proceeded

thus far in his analysis, he will next divide speeches into their different classes:—'Such

and such persons,' he will say, are affected by this or that kind of speech in this or that

way,' and he will tell you why. The pupil must have a good theoretical notion of them

first, and then he must have experience of them in actual life, and be able to follow

them with all his senses about him, or he will never get beyond the precepts of his

masters. But when he understands what persons are persuaded by what arguments, and

sees the person about whom he was speaking in the abstract actually before him, and

knows that it is he, and can say to himself, 'This is the man or this is the character who

ought to have a certain argument applied to him in order to convince him of a certain

opinion;'—he who knows all this, and knows also when he should speak and when he

should refrain, and when he should use pithy sayings, pathetic appeals, sensational

effects, and all the other modes of speech which he has learned;—when, I say, he knows

the times and seasons of all these things, then, and not till then, he is a perfect master of

his art; but if he fail in any of these points, whether in speaking or teaching or writing

them, and yet declares that he speaks by rules of art, he who says 'I don't believe you'

has the better of him. Well, the teacher will say, is this, Phaedrus and Socrates, your

account of the so-called art of rhetoric, or am I to look for another?

PHAEDRUS: He must take this, Socrates, for there is no possibility of another, and yet

the creation of such an art is not easy.

SOCRATES: Very true; and therefore let us consider this matter in every light, and see

whether we cannot find a shorter and easier road; there is no use in taking a long rough

roundabout way if there be a shorter and easier one. And I wish that you would try and

remember whether you have heard from Lysias or any one else anything which might be

of service to us.

PHAEDRUS: If trying would avail, then I might; but at the moment I can think of nothing.

SOCRATES: Suppose I tell you something which somebody who knows told me.

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: May not 'the wolf,' as the proverb says, 'claim a hearing'?

PHAEDRUS: Do you say what can be said for him.

SOCRATES: He will argue that there is no use in putting a solemn face on these matters,

or in going round and round, until you arrive at first principles; for, as I said at first, when

the question is of justice and good, or is a question in which men are concerned who

are just and good, either by nature or habit, he who would be a skilful rhetorician has no

need of truth—for that in courts of law men literally care nothing about truth, but only

about conviction: and this is based on probability, to which he who would be a skilful

orator should therefore give his whole attention. And they say also that there are cases

in which the actual facts, if they are improbable, ought to be withheld, and only the

probabilities should be told either in accusation or defence, and that always in speaking,

the orator should keep probability in view, and say good-bye to the truth. And the

observance of this principle throughout a speech furnishes the whole art.

PHAEDRUS: That is what the professors of rhetoric do actually say, Socrates. I have not

forgotten that we have quite briefly touched upon this matter already; with them the

point is all-important.

SOCRATES: I dare say that you are familiar with Tisias. Does he not define probability to

be that which the many think?

PHAEDRUS: Certainly, he does.

SOCRATES: I believe that he has a clever and ingenious case of this sort: —He supposes

a feeble and valiant man to have assaulted a strong and cowardly one, and to have

robbed him of his coat or of something or other; he is brought into court, and then

Tisias says that both parties should tell lies: the coward should say that he was assaulted

by more men than one; the other should prove that they were alone, and should argue

thus: 'How could a weak man like me have assaulted a strong man like him?' The

complainant will not like to confess his own cowardice, and will therefore invent some

other lie which his adversary will thus gain an opportunity of refuting. And there are

other devices of the same kind which have a place in the system. Am I not right,

Phaedrus?

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Bless me, what a wonderfully mysterious art is this which Tisias or some

other gentleman, in whatever name or country he rejoices, has discovered. Shall we say

a word to him or not?

PHAEDRUS: What shall we say to him?

SOCRATES: Let us tell him that, before he appeared, you and I were saying that the

probability of which he speaks was engendered in the minds of the many by the likeness

of the truth, and we had just been affirming that he who knew the truth would always

know best how to discover the resemblances of the truth. If he has anything else to say

about the art of speaking we should like to hear him; but if not, we are satisfied with our

own view, that unless a man estimates the various characters of his hearers and is able

to divide all things into classes and to comprehend them under single ideas, he will

never be a skilful rhetorician even within the limits of human power. And this skill he will

not attain without a great deal of trouble, which a good man ought to undergo, not for

the sake of speaking and acting before men, but in order that he may be able to say

what is acceptable to God and always to act acceptably to Him as far as in him lies; for

there is a saying of wiser men than ourselves, that a man of sense should not try to

please his fellow-servants (at least this should not be his first object) but his good and

noble masters; and therefore if the way is long and circuitous, marvel not at this, for,

where the end is great, there we may take the longer road, but not for lesser ends such

as yours. Truly, the argument may say, Tisias, that if you do not mind going so far,

rhetoric has a fair beginning here.

PHAEDRUS: I think, Socrates, that this is admirable, if only practicable.

SOCRATES: But even to fail in an honourable object is honourable.

PHAEDRUS: True.

SOCRATES: Enough appears to have been said by us of a true and false art of speaking.

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: But there is something yet to be said of propriety and impropriety of writing.

PHAEDRUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Do you know how you can speak or act about rhetoric in a manner which

will be acceptable to God?

PHAEDRUS: No, indeed. Do you?

SOCRATES: I have heard a tradition of the ancients, whether true or not they only know;

although if we had found the truth ourselves, do you think that we should care much

about the opinions of men?

PHAEDRUS: Your question needs no answer; but I wish that you would tell me what you

say that you have heard.

SOCRATES: At the Egyptian city of Naucratis, there was a famous old god, whose name

was Theuth; the bird which is called the Ibis is sacred to him, and he was the inventor of

many arts, such as arithmetic and calculation and geometry and astronomy and

draughts and dice, but his great discovery was the use of letters. Now in those days the

god Thamus was the king of the whole country of Egypt; and he dwelt in that great city

of Upper Egypt which the Hellenes call Egyptian Thebes, and the god himself is called by

them Ammon. To him came Theuth and showed his inventions, desiring that the other

Egyptians might be allowed to have the benefit of them; he enumerated them, and

Thamus enquired about their several uses, and praised some of them and censured

others, as he approved or disapproved of them. It would take a long time to repeat all

that Thamus said to Theuth in praise or blame of the various arts. But when they came

to letters, This, said Theuth, will make the Egyptians wiser and give them better

memories; it is a specific both for the memory and for the wit. Thamus replied: O most

ingenious Theuth, the parent or inventor of an art is not always the best judge of the

utility or inutility of his own inventions to the users of them. And in this instance, you

who are the father of letters, from a paternal love of your own children have been led to

attribute to them a quality which they cannot have; for this discovery of yours will create

forgetfulness in the learners' souls, because they will not use their memories; they will

trust to the external written characters and not remember of themselves. The specific

which you have discovered is an aid not to memory, but to reminiscence, and you give

your disciples not truth, but only the semblance of truth; they will be hearers of many

things and will have learned nothing; they will appear to be omniscient and will

generally know nothing; they will be tiresome company, having the show of wisdom

without the reality.

PHAEDRUS: Yes, Socrates, you can easily invent tales of Egypt, or of any other country.

SOCRATES: There was a tradition in the temple of Dodona that oaks first gave prophetic

utterances. The men of old, unlike in their simplicity to young philosophy, deemed that

if they heard the truth even from 'oak or rock,' it was enough for them; whereas you

seem to consider not whether a thing is or is not true, but who the speaker is and from

what country the tale comes.

PHAEDRUS: I acknowledge the justice of your rebuke; and I think that the Theban is

right in his view about letters.

SOCRATES: He would be a very simple person, and quite a stranger to the oracles of

Thamus or Ammon, who should leave in writing or receive in writing any art under the

idea that the written word would be intelligible or certain; or who deemed that writing

was at all better than knowledge and recollection of the same matters?

PHAEDRUS: That is most true.

SOCRATES: I cannot help feeling, Phaedrus, that writing is unfortunately like painting; for

the creations of the painter have the attitude of life, and yet if you ask them a question

they preserve a solemn silence. And the same may be said of speeches. You would

imagine that they had intelligence, but if you want to know anything and put a question

to one of them, the speaker always gives one unvarying answer. And when they have

been once written down they are tumbled about anywhere among those who may or

may not understand them, and know not to whom they should reply, to whom not: and,

if they are maltreated or abused, they have no parent to protect them; and they cannot

protect or defend themselves.

PHAEDRUS: That again is most true.

SOCRATES: Is there not another kind of word or speech far better than this, and having

far greater power—a son of the same family, but lawfully begotten?

PHAEDRUS: Whom do you mean, and what is his origin?

SOCRATES: I mean an intelligent word graven in the soul of the learner, which can

defend itself, and knows when to speak and when to be silent.

PHAEDRUS: You mean the living word of knowledge which has a soul, and of which the

written word is properly no more than an image?

SOCRATES: Yes, of course that is what I mean. And now may I be allowed to ask you a

question: Would a husbandman, who is a man of sense, take the seeds, which he values

and which he wishes to bear fruit, and in sober seriousness plant them during the heat

of summer, in some garden of Adonis, that he may rejoice when he sees them in eight

days appearing in beauty? at least he would do so, if at all, only for the sake of

amusement and pastime. But when he is in earnest he sows in fitting soil, and practises

husbandry, and is satisfied if in eight months the seeds which he has sown arrive at

perfection?

PHAEDRUS: Yes, Socrates, that will be his way when he is in earnest; he will do the other,

as you say, only in play.

SOCRATES: And can we suppose that he who knows the just and good and honourable

has less understanding, than the husbandman, about his own seeds?

PHAEDRUS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Then he will not seriously incline to 'write' his thoughts 'in water' with pen

and ink, sowing words which can neither speak for themselves nor teach the truth

adequately to others?

PHAEDRUS: No, that is not likely.

SOCRATES: No, that is not likely—in the garden of letters he will sow and plant, but only

for the sake of recreation and amusement; he will write them down as memorials to be

treasured against the forgetfulness of old age, by himself, or by any other old man who

is treading the same path. He will rejoice in beholding their tender growth; and while

others are refreshing their souls with banqueting and the like, this will be the pastime in

which his days are spent.

PHAEDRUS: A pastime, Socrates, as noble as the other is ignoble, the pastime of a man

who can be amused by serious talk, and can discourse merrily about justice and the like.

SOCRATES: True, Phaedrus. But nobler far is the serious pursuit of the dialectician, who,

finding a congenial soul, by the help of science sows and plants therein words which are

able to help themselves and him who planted them, and are not unfruitful, but have in

them a seed which others brought up in different soils render immortal, making the

possessors of it happy to the utmost extent of human happiness.

PHAEDRUS: Far nobler, certainly.

SOCRATES: And now, Phaedrus, having agreed upon the premises we may decide about

the conclusion.

PHAEDRUS: About what conclusion?

SOCRATES: About Lysias, whom we censured, and his art of writing, and his discourses,

and the rhetorical skill or want of skill which was shown in them—these are the

questions which we sought to determine, and they brought us to this point. And I think

that we are now pretty well informed about the nature of art and its opposite.

PHAEDRUS: Yes, I think with you; but I wish that you would repeat what was said.

SOCRATES: Until a man knows the truth of the several particulars of which he is writing

or speaking, and is able to define them as they are, and having defined them again to

divide them until they can be no longer divided, and until in like manner he is able to

discern the nature of the soul, and discover the different modes of discourse which are

adapted to different natures, and to arrange and dispose them in such a way that the

simple form of speech may be addressed to the simpler nature, and the complex and

composite to the more complex nature—until he has accomplished all this, he will be

unable to handle arguments according to rules of art, as far as their nature allows them

to be subjected to art, either for the purpose of teaching or persuading;—such is the

view which is implied in the whole preceding argument.

PHAEDRUS: Yes, that was our view, certainly.

SOCRATES: Secondly, as to the censure which was passed on the speaking or writing of

discourses, and how they might be rightly or wrongly censured— did not our previous

argument show—?

PHAEDRUS: Show what?

SOCRATES: That whether Lysias or any other writer that ever was or will be, whether

private man or statesman, proposes laws and so becomes the author of a political

treatise, fancying that there is any great certainty and clearness in his performance, the

fact of his so writing is only a disgrace to him, whatever men may say. For not to know

the nature of justice and injustice, and good and evil, and not to be able to distinguish

the dream from the reality, cannot in truth be otherwise than disgraceful to him, even

though he have the applause of the whole world.

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: But he who thinks that in the written word there is necessarily much which is

not serious, and that neither poetry nor prose, spoken or written, is of any great value, if,

like the compositions of the rhapsodes, they are only recited in order to be believed,

and not with any view to criticism or instruction; and who thinks that even the best of

writings are but a reminiscence of what we know, and that only in principles of justice

and goodness and nobility taught and communicated orally for the sake of instruction

and graven in the soul, which is the true way of writing, is there clearness and perfection

and seriousness, and that such principles are a man's own and his legitimate offspring;—

being, in the first place, the word which he finds in his own bosom; secondly, the

brethren and descendants and relations of his idea which have been duly implanted by

him in the souls of others;—and who cares for them and no others—this is the right sort

of man; and you and I, Phaedrus, would pray that we may become like him.

PHAEDRUS: That is most assuredly my desire and prayer.

SOCRATES: And now the play is played out; and of rhetoric enough. Go and tell Lysias

that to the fountain and school of the Nymphs we went down, and were bidden by

them to convey a message to him and to other composers of speeches—to Homer and

other writers of poems, whether set to music or not; and to Solon and others who have

composed writings in the form of political discourses which they would term laws—to all

of them we are to say that if their compositions are based on knowledge of the truth,

and they can defend or prove them, when they are put to the test, by spoken

arguments, which leave their writings poor in comparison of them, then they are to be

called, not only poets, orators, legislators, but are worthy of a higher name, befitting the

serious pursuit of their life.

PHAEDRUS: What name would you assign to them?

SOCRATES: Wise, I may not call them; for that is a great name which belongs to God

alone,—lovers of wisdom or philosophers is their modest and befitting title.

PHAEDRUS: Very suitable.

SOCRATES: And he who cannot rise above his own compilations and compositions,

which he has been long patching and piecing, adding some and taking away some, may

be justly called poet or speech-maker or law-maker.

PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Now go and tell this to your companion.

PHAEDRUS: But there is also a friend of yours who ought not to be forgotten.

SOCRATES: Who is he?

PHAEDRUS: Isocrates the fair:—What message will you send to him, and how shall we

describe him?

SOCRATES: Isocrates is still young, Phaedrus; but I am willing to hazard a prophecy

concerning him.

PHAEDRUS: What would you prophesy?

SOCRATES: I think that he has a genius which soars above the orations of Lysias, and

that his character is cast in a finer mould. My impression of him is that he will

marvellously improve as he grows older, and that all former rhetoricians will be as

children in comparison of him. And I believe that he will not be satisfied with rhetoric,

but that there is in him a divine inspiration which will lead him to things higher still. For

he has an element of philosophy in his nature. This is the message of the gods dwelling

in this place, and which I will myself deliver to Isocrates, who is my delight; and do you

give the other to Lysias, who is yours.

PHAEDRUS: I will; and now as the heat is abated let us depart.

SOCRATES: Should we not offer up a prayer first of all to the local deities?

PHAEDRUS: By all means.

SOCRATES: Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who haunt this place, give me beauty in

the inward soul; and may the outward and inward man be at one. May I reckon the wise

to be the wealthy, and may I have such a quantity of gold as a temperate man and he

only can bear and carry.—Anything more? The prayer, I think, is enough for me.

PHAEDRUS: Ask the same for me, for friends should have all things in common.

SOCRATES: Let us go.

THE END


	3. Chapter 3 Homer's Iliad

THE ILIAD OF HOMER***

The Iliad of Homer

Contents

INTRODUCTION. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

POPE'S PREFACE TO THE ILIAD OF HOMER . . . . . xlv

BOOK I. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

BOOK II. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

BOOK III. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85

BOOK IV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111

BOOK V. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137

BOOK VI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181

BOOK VII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209

BOOK VIII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233

BOOK IX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261

BOOK X. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295

BOOK XI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319

BOOK XII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355

BOOK XIII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377

BOOK XIV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415

BOOK XV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441

BOOK XVI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 473

BOOK XVII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 513

BOOK XVIII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 545

BOOK XIX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 575

BOOK XX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 593

BOOK XXI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 615

BOOK XXII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 641

BOOK XXIII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 667

BOOK XXIV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 707

CONCLUDING NOTE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 747

THE ILIAD.

BOOK I.

BOOK I. 5

Declare, O Muse! in what ill-fated hour43

Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power

Latona's son a dire contagion spread,44

And heap'd the camp with mountains of the dead;

The king of men his reverent priest defied,45

And for the king's offence the people died.

For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gain

His captive daughter from the victor's chain.

Suppliant the venerable father stands;

Apollo's awful ensigns grace his hands

By these he begs; and lowly bending down,

Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown

He sued to all, but chief implored for grace

The brother-kings, of Atreus' royal race46

"Ye kings and warriors! may your vows be crown'd,

And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground.

May Jove restore you when your toils are o'er

Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.

But, oh! relieve a wretched parent's pain,

And give Chryseis to these arms again;

If mercy fail, yet let my presents move,

And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove."

43 Compare Milton's "Paradise Lost" i. 6

"Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret top

Of Horeb, or of Sinai, didst inspire

That shepherd."

44 —Latona's son: i.e. Apollo.

45 —King of men: Agamemnon.

46 —Brother kings: Menelaus and Agamemnon.

6 The Iliad of Homer

The Greeks in shouts their joint assent declare,

The priest to reverence, and release the fair.

Not so Atrides; he, with kingly pride,

Repulsed the sacred sire, and thus replied:

"Hence on thy life, and fly these hostile plains,

Nor ask, presumptuous, what the king detains

Hence, with thy laurel crown, and golden rod,

[003] Nor trust too far those ensigns of thy god.

Mine is thy daughter, priest, and shall remain;

And prayers, and tears, and bribes, shall plead in vain;

Till time shall rifle every youthful grace,

And age dismiss her from my cold embrace,

In daily labours of the loom employ'd,

Or doom'd to deck the bed she once enjoy'd

Hence then; to Argos shall the maid retire,

Far from her native soil and weeping sire."

HOMER INVOKING THE MUSE.

BOOK I. 7

The trembling priest along the shore return'd,

And in the anguish of a father mourn'd.

Disconsolate, not daring to complain,

Silent he wander'd by the sounding main;

Till, safe at distance, to his god he prays,

The god who darts around the world his rays.

"O Smintheus! sprung from fair Latona's line,47

Thou guardian power of Cilla the divine,48

Thou source of light! whom Tenedos adores,

And whose bright presence gilds thy Chrysa's shores. [004]

If e'er with wreaths I hung thy sacred fane,49

Or fed the flames with fat of oxen slain;

God of the silver bow! thy shafts employ,

Avenge thy servant, and the Greeks destroy."

47 —Smintheus an epithet taken from sminthos, the Phrygian name for a

mouse, was applied to Apollo for having put an end to a plague of mice which

had harassed that territory. Strabo, however, says, that when the Teucri were

migrating from Crete, they were told by an oracle to settle in that place, where

they should not be attacked by the original inhabitants of the land, and that,

having halted for the night, a number of field-mice came and gnawed away the

leathern straps of their baggage, and thongs of their armour. In fulfilment of

the oracle, they settled on the spot, and raised a temple to Sminthean Apollo.

Grote, "History of Greece," i. p. 68, remarks that the "worship of Sminthean

Apollo, in various parts of the Troad and its neighboring territory, dates before

the earliest period of Aeolian colonization."

48 —Cilla, a town of Troas near Thebe, so called from Cillus, a sister of

Hippodamia, slain by OEnomaus.

49 A mistake. It should be,

"If e'er I roofed thy graceful fane,"

for the custom of decorating temples with garlands was of later date.

8 The Iliad of Homer

Thus Chryses pray'd.—the favouring power attends,

And from Olympus' lofty tops descends.

Bent was his bow, the Grecian hearts to wound;50

Fierce as he moved, his silver shafts resound.

Breathing revenge, a sudden night he spread,

And gloomy darkness roll'd about his head.

The fleet in view, he twang'd his deadly bow,

And hissing fly the feather'd fates below.

On mules and dogs the infection first began;51

And last, the vengeful arrows fix'd in man.

For nine long nights, through all the dusky air,

The pyres, thick-flaming, shot a dismal glare.

But ere the tenth revolving day was run,

Inspired by Juno, Thetis' godlike son

Convened to council all the Grecian train;

For much the goddess mourn'd her heroes slain.52

50 —Bent was his bow "The Apollo of Homer, it must be borne in mind, is

a different character from the deity of the same name in the later classical

pantheon. Throughout both poems, all deaths from unforeseen or invisible

causes, the ravages of pestilence, the fate of the young child or promising adult,

cut off in the germ of infancy or flower of youth, of the old man dropping

peacefully into the grave, or of the reckless sinner suddenly checked in his

career of crime, are ascribed to the arrows of Apollo or Diana. The oracular

functions of the god rose naturally out of the above fundamental attributes,

for who could more appropriately impart to mortals what little foreknowledge

Fate permitted of her decrees than the agent of her most awful dispensations?

The close union of the arts of prophecy and song explains his additional office

of god of music, while the arrows with which he and his sister were armed,

symbols of sudden death in every age, no less naturally procured him that of

god of archery. Of any connection between Apollo and the Sun, whatever may

have existed in the more esoteric doctrine of the Greek sanctuaries, there is no

trace in either Iliad or Odyssey."—Mure, "History of Greek Literature," vol. i.

p. 478, sq.

51 It has frequently been observed, that most pestilences begin with animals,

and that Homer had this fact in mind.

52 —Convened to council. The public assembly in the heroic times is

well characterized by Grote, vol. ii. p 92. "It is an assembly for talk.

BOOK I. 9

The assembly seated, rising o'er the rest,

Achilles thus the king of men address'd:

"Why leave we not the fatal Trojan shore,

And measure back the seas we cross'd before?

The plague destroying whom the sword would spare,

'Tis time to save the few remains of war.

But let some prophet, or some sacred sage,

Explore the cause of great Apollo's rage;

Or learn the wasteful vengeance to remove

By mystic dreams, for dreams descend from Jove.53

[005]

If broken vows this heavy curse have laid,

Let altars smoke, and hecatombs be paid.

So Heaven, atoned, shall dying Greece restore,

And Phoebus dart his burning shafts no more."

He said, and sat: when Chalcas thus replied;

Chalcas the wise, the Grecian priest and guide,

That sacred seer, whose comprehensive view,

The past, the present, and the future knew:

Uprising slow, the venerable sage

Thus spoke the prudence and the fears of age:

Communication and discussion to a certain extent by the chiefs in person, of

the people as listeners and sympathizers—often for eloquence, and sometimes

for quarrel—but here its ostensible purposes end."

53 Old Jacob Duport, whose "Gnomologia Homerica" is full of curious and

useful things, quotes several passages of the ancients, in which reference is

made to these words of Homer, in maintenance of the belief that dreams had a

divine origin and an import in which men were interested.

10 The Iliad of Homer

"Beloved of Jove, Achilles! would'st thou know

Why angry Phoebus bends his fatal bow?

First give thy faith, and plight a prince's word

Of sure protection, by thy power and sword:

For I must speak what wisdom would conceal,

And truths, invidious to the great, reveal,

Bold is the task, when subjects, grown too wise,

Instruct a monarch where his error lies;

For though we deem the short-lived fury past,

'Tis sure the mighty will revenge at last."

To whom Pelides:—"From thy inmost soul

Speak what thou know'st, and speak without control.

E'en by that god I swear who rules the day,

To whom thy hands the vows of Greece convey.

And whose bless'd oracles thy lips declare;

Long as Achilles breathes this vital air,

No daring Greek, of all the numerous band,

Against his priest shall lift an impious hand;

Not e'en the chief by whom our hosts are led,

The king of kings, shall touch that sacred head."

Encouraged thus, the blameless man replies:

"Nor vows unpaid, nor slighted sacrifice,

But he, our chief, provoked the raging pest,

Apollo's vengeance for his injured priest.

Nor will the god's awaken'd fury cease,

But plagues shall spread, and funeral fires increase,

Till the great king, without a ransom paid,

To her own Chrysa send the black-eyed maid.54

Perhaps, with added sacrifice and prayer,

The priest may pardon, and the god may spare."

54 Rather, "bright-eyed." See the German critics quoted by Arnold.

BOOK I. 11

The prophet spoke: when with a gloomy frown

The monarch started from his shining throne;

Black choler fill'd his breast that boil'd with ire,

And from his eye-balls flash'd the living fire:

"Augur accursed! denouncing mischief still,

Prophet of plagues, for ever boding ill!

Still must that tongue some wounding message bring,

And still thy priestly pride provoke thy king? [006]

For this are Phoebus' oracles explored,

To teach the Greeks to murmur at their lord?

For this with falsehood is my honour stain'd,

Is heaven offended, and a priest profaned;

Because my prize, my beauteous maid, I hold,

And heavenly charms prefer to proffer'd gold?

A maid, unmatch'd in manners as in face,

Skill'd in each art, and crown'd with every grace;

Not half so dear were Clytaemnestra's charms,

When first her blooming beauties bless'd my arms.

Yet, if the gods demand her, let her sail;

Our cares are only for the public weal:

Let me be deem'd the hateful cause of all,

And suffer, rather than my people fall.

The prize, the beauteous prize, I will resign,

So dearly valued, and so justly mine.

But since for common good I yield the fair,

My private loss let grateful Greece repair;

Nor unrewarded let your prince complain,

That he alone has fought and bled in vain."

"Insatiate king (Achilles thus replies),

Fond of the power, but fonder of the prize!

Would'st thou the Greeks their lawful prey should yield,

The due reward of many a well-fought field?

12 The Iliad of Homer

The spoils of cities razed and warriors slain,

We share with justice, as with toil we gain;

But to resume whate'er thy avarice craves

(That trick of tyrants) may be borne by slaves.

Yet if our chief for plunder only fight,

The spoils of Ilion shall thy loss requite,

Whene'er, by Jove's decree, our conquering powers

Shall humble to the dust her lofty towers."

Then thus the king: "Shall I my prize resign

With tame content, and thou possess'd of thine?

Great as thou art, and like a god in fight,

Think not to rob me of a soldier's right.

At thy demand shall I restore the maid?

First let the just equivalent be paid;

Such as a king might ask; and let it be

A treasure worthy her, and worthy me.

Or grant me this, or with a monarch's claim

This hand shall seize some other captive dame.

The mighty Ajax shall his prize resign;55

Ulysses' spoils, or even thy own, be mine.

The man who suffers, loudly may complain;

And rage he may, but he shall rage in vain.

But this when time requires.—It now remains

[007] We launch a bark to plough the watery plains,

And waft the sacrifice to Chrysa's shores,

With chosen pilots, and with labouring oars.

Soon shall the fair the sable ship ascend,

And some deputed prince the charge attend:

This Creta's king, or Ajax shall fulfil,

Or wise Ulysses see perform'd our will;

Or, if our royal pleasure shall ordain,

55 The prize given to Ajax was Tecmessa, while Ulysses received Laodice,

the daughter of Cycnus.

BOOK I. 13

BOOK I. 13

Achilles' self conduct her o'er the main;

Let fierce Achilles, dreadful in his rage,

The god propitiate, and the pest assuage."

MARS.

At this, Pelides, frowning stern, replied:

"O tyrant, arm'd with insolence and pride!

Inglorious slave to interest, ever join'd

With fraud, unworthy of a royal mind!

What generous Greek, obedient to thy word,

Shall form an ambush, or shall lift the sword?

What cause have I to war at thy decree?

The distant Trojans never injured me;

To Phthia's realms no hostile troops they led:

Safe in her vales my warlike coursers fed;

Far hence removed, the hoarse-resounding main,

And walls of rocks, secure my native reign,

Whose fruitful soil luxuriant harvests grace,

Rich in her fruits, and in her martial race.

Hither we sail'd, a voluntary throng,

To avenge a private, not a public wrong:

What else to Troy the assembled nations draws,

14 The Iliad of Homer

But thine, ungrateful, and thy brother's cause?

Is this the pay our blood and toils deserve;

Disgraced and injured by the man we serve?

And darest thou threat to snatch my prize away,

Due to the deeds of many a dreadful day?

A prize as small, O tyrant! match'd with thine,

As thy own actions if compared to mine.

Thine in each conquest is the wealthy prey,

Though mine the sweat and danger of the day.

Some trivial present to my ships I bear:

[008] Or barren praises pay the wounds of war.

But know, proud monarch, I'm thy slave no more;

My fleet shall waft me to Thessalia's shore:

Left by Achilles on the Trojan plain,

What spoils, what conquests, shall Atrides gain?"

To this the king: "Fly, mighty warrior! fly;

Thy aid we need not, and thy threats defy.

There want not chiefs in such a cause to fight,

And Jove himself shall guard a monarch's right.

Of all the kings (the god's distinguish'd care)

To power superior none such hatred bear:

Strife and debate thy restless soul employ,

And wars and horrors are thy savage joy,

If thou hast strength, 'twas Heaven that strength bestow'd;

For know, vain man! thy valour is from God.

Haste, launch thy vessels, fly with speed away;

Rule thy own realms with arbitrary sway;

I heed thee not, but prize at equal rate

Thy short-lived friendship, and thy groundless hate.

Go, threat thy earth-born Myrmidons:—but here56

56 The Myrmidons dwelt on the southern borders of Thessaly, and took their

origin from Myrmido, son of Jupiter and Eurymedusa. It is fancifully supposed

that the name was derived from myrmaex, an ant, "because they imitated the

BOOK I. 15

'Tis mine to threaten, prince, and thine to fear.

Know, if the god the beauteous dame demand,

My bark shall waft her to her native land;

But then prepare, imperious prince! prepare,

Fierce as thou art, to yield thy captive fair:

Even in thy tent I'll seize the blooming prize,

Thy loved Briseis with the radiant eyes.

Hence shalt thou prove my might, and curse the hour

Thou stood'st a rival of imperial power;

And hence, to all our hosts it shall be known,

That kings are subject to the gods alone."

Achilles heard, with grief and rage oppress'd,

His heart swell'd high, and labour'd in his breast;

Distracting thoughts by turns his bosom ruled;

Now fired by wrath, and now by reason cool'd:

That prompts his hand to draw the deadly sword,

Force through the Greeks, and pierce their haughty lord;

This whispers soft his vengeance to control,

And calm the rising tempest of his soul.

Just as in anguish of suspense he stay'd,

While half unsheathed appear'd the glittering blade,57

[009]

diligence of the ants, and like them were indefatigable, continually employed

in cultivating the earth; the change from ants to men is founded merely on

the equivocation of their name, which resembles that of the ant: they bore a

further resemblance to these little animals, in that instead of inhabiting towns

or villages, at first they commonly resided in the open fields, having no other

retreats but dens and the cavities of trees, until Ithacus brought them together,

and settled them in more secure and comfortable habitations."—Anthon's

"Lempriere."

57 Eustathius, after Heraclides Ponticus and others, allegorizes this apparition,

as if the appearance of Minerva to Achilles, unseen by the rest, was intended

to point out the sudden recollection that he would gain nothing by intemperate

wrath, and that it were best to restrain his anger, and only gratify it by

withdrawing his services. The same idea is rather cleverly worked out by

Apuleius, "De Deo Socratis."

16 The Iliad of Homer

Minerva swift descended from above,

Sent by the sister and the wife of Jove

(For both the princes claim'd her equal care);

Behind she stood, and by the golden hair

Achilles seized; to him alone confess'd;

A sable cloud conceal'd her from the rest.

He sees, and sudden to the goddess cries,

Known by the flames that sparkle from her eyes:

MINERVA REPRESSING THE FURY OF ACHILLES.

"Descends Minerva, in her guardian care,

A heavenly witness of the wrongs I bear

From Atreus' son?—Then let those eyes that view

The daring crime, behold the vengeance too."

BOOK I. 17

"Forbear (the progeny of Jove replies)

To calm thy fury I forsake the skies:

Let great Achilles, to the gods resign'd,

To reason yield the empire o'er his mind.

By awful Juno this command is given;

The king and you are both the care of heaven.

The force of keen reproaches let him feel;

But sheathe, obedient, thy revenging steel.

For I pronounce (and trust a heavenly power)

Thy injured honour has its fated hour,

When the proud monarch shall thy arms implores

And bribe thy friendship with a boundless store.

Then let revenge no longer bear the sway;

Command thy passions, and the gods obey."

To her Pelides:—"With regardful ear,

'Tis just, O goddess! I thy dictates hear. [010]

Hard as it is, my vengeance I suppress:

Those who revere the gods the gods will bless."

He said, observant of the blue-eyed maid;

Then in the sheath return'd the shining blade.

The goddess swift to high Olympus flies,

And joins the sacred senate of the skies.

Nor yet the rage his boiling breast forsook,

Which thus redoubling on Atrides broke:

"O monster! mix'd of insolence and fear,

Thou dog in forehead, but in heart a deer!

When wert thou known in ambush'd fights to dare,

Or nobly face the horrid front of war?

'Tis ours, the chance of fighting fields to try;

Thine to look on, and bid the valiant die:

So much 'tis safer through the camp to go,

And rob a subject, than despoil a foe.

18 The Iliad of Homer

Scourge of thy people, violent and base!

Sent in Jove's anger on a slavish race;

Who, lost to sense of generous freedom past,

Are tamed to wrongs;—or this had been thy last.

Now by this sacred sceptre hear me swear,

Which never more shall leaves or blossoms bear,

Which sever'd from the trunk (as I from thee)

On the bare mountains left its parent tree;

This sceptre, form'd by temper'd steel to prove

An ensign of the delegates of Jove,

From whom the power of laws and justice springs

(Tremendous oath! inviolate to kings);

By this I swear:—when bleeding Greece again

Shall call Achilles, she shall call in vain.

When, flush'd with slaughter, Hector comes to spread

The purpled shore with mountains of the dead,

Then shall thou mourn the affront thy madness gave,

Forced to deplore when impotent to save:

Then rage in bitterness of soul to know

This act has made the bravest Greek thy foe."

He spoke; and furious hurl'd against the ground

His sceptre starr'd with golden studs around:

Then sternly silent sat. With like disdain

The raging king return'd his frowns again.

To calm their passion with the words of age,

Slow from his seat arose the Pylian sage,

Experienced Nestor, in persuasion skill'd;

Words, sweet as honey, from his lips distill'd:58

58 Compare Milton, "Paradise Lost," bk. ii:

"Though his tongue

Dropp'd manna."

So Proverbs v. 3, "For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honey-comb."

BOOK I. 19

Two generations now had pass'd away,

Wise by his rules, and happy by his sway;

Two ages o'er his native realm he reign'd, [011]

And now the example of the third remain'd.

All view'd with awe the venerable man;

Who thus with mild benevolence began:—

"What shame, what woe is this to Greece! what joy

To Troy's proud monarch, and the friends of Troy!

That adverse gods commit to stern debate

The best, the bravest, of the Grecian state.

Young as ye are, this youthful heat restrain,

Nor think your Nestor's years and wisdom vain.

A godlike race of heroes once I knew,

Such as no more these aged eyes shall view!

Lives there a chief to match Pirithous' fame,

Dryas the bold, or Ceneus' deathless name;

Theseus, endued with more than mortal might,

Or Polyphemus, like the gods in fight?

With these of old, to toils of battle bred,

In early youth my hardy days I led;

Fired with the thirst which virtuous envy breeds,

And smit with love of honourable deeds,

Strongest of men, they pierced the mountain boar,

Ranged the wild deserts red with monsters' gore,

And from their hills the shaggy Centaurs tore:

Yet these with soft persuasive arts I sway'd;

When Nestor spoke, they listen'd and obey'd.

If in my youth, even these esteem'd me wise;

Do you, young warriors, hear my age advise.

Atrides, seize not on the beauteous slave;

That prize the Greeks by common suffrage gave:

Nor thou, Achilles, treat our prince with pride;

Let kings be just, and sovereign power preside.

20 The Iliad of Homer

Thee, the first honours of the war adorn,

Like gods in strength, and of a goddess born;

Him, awful majesty exalts above

The powers of earth, and sceptred sons of Jove.

Let both unite with well-consenting mind,

So shall authority with strength be join'd.

Leave me, O king! to calm Achilles' rage;

Rule thou thyself, as more advanced in age.

Forbid it, gods! Achilles should be lost,

The pride of Greece, and bulwark of our host."

This said, he ceased. The king of men replies:

"Thy years are awful, and thy words are wise.

But that imperious, that unconquer'd soul,

No laws can limit, no respect control.

Before his pride must his superiors fall;

His word the law, and he the lord of all?

Him must our hosts, our chiefs, ourself obey?

What king can bear a rival in his sway?

Grant that the gods his matchless force have given;

Has foul reproach a privilege from heaven?"

[012]

Here on the monarch's speech Achilles broke,

And furious, thus, and interrupting spoke:

"Tyrant, I well deserved thy galling chain,

To live thy slave, and still to serve in vain,

Should I submit to each unjust decree:—

Command thy vassals, but command not me.

Seize on Briseis, whom the Grecians doom'd

My prize of war, yet tamely see resumed;

And seize secure; no more Achilles draws

His conquering sword in any woman's cause.

The gods command me to forgive the past:

But let this first invasion be the last:

BOOK I. 21

For know, thy blood, when next thou darest invade,

Shall stream in vengeance on my reeking blade."

At this they ceased: the stern debate expired:

The chiefs in sullen majesty retired.

Achilles with Patroclus took his way

Where near his tents his hollow vessels lay.

Meantime Atrides launch'd with numerous oars

A well-rigg'd ship for Chrysa's sacred shores:

High on the deck was fair Chryseis placed,

And sage Ulysses with the conduct graced:

Safe in her sides the hecatomb they stow'd,

Then swiftly sailing, cut the liquid road.

The host to expiate next the king prepares,

With pure lustrations, and with solemn prayers.

Wash'd by the briny wave, the pious train59

Are cleansed; and cast the ablutions in the main.

Along the shore whole hecatombs were laid,

And bulls and goats to Phoebus' altars paid;

The sable fumes in curling spires arise,

And waft their grateful odours to the skies.

The army thus in sacred rites engaged,

Atrides still with deep resentment raged.

To wait his will two sacred heralds stood,

Talthybius and Eurybates the good.

"Haste to the fierce Achilles' tent (he cries),

Thence bear Briseis as our royal prize:

Submit he must; or if they will not part,

Ourself in arms shall tear her from his heart."

59 Salt water was chiefly used in lustrations, from its being supposed to possess

certain fiery particles. Hence, if sea-water could not be obtained, salt was

thrown into the fresh water to be used for the lustration. Menander, in Clem.

Alex. vii. p.713, hydati perriranai, embalon alas, phakois.

22 The Iliad of Homer

The unwilling heralds act their lord's commands;

Pensive they walk along the barren sands:

Arrived, the hero in his tent they find,

With gloomy aspect on his arm reclined.

At awful distance long they silent stand,

[013] Loth to advance, and speak their hard command;

Decent confusion! This the godlike man

Perceived, and thus with accent mild began:

"With leave and honour enter our abodes,

Ye sacred ministers of men and gods!60

I know your message; by constraint you came;

Not you, but your imperious lord I blame.

Patroclus, haste, the fair Briseis bring;

Conduct my captive to the haughty king.

But witness, heralds, and proclaim my vow,

Witness to gods above, and men below!

But first, and loudest, to your prince declare

(That lawless tyrant whose commands you bear),

Unmoved as death Achilles shall remain,

Though prostrate Greece shall bleed at every vein:

The raging chief in frantic passion lost,

Blind to himself, and useless to his host,

Unskill'd to judge the future by the past,

In blood and slaughter shall repent at last."

60 The persons of heralds were held inviolable, and they were at liberty to

travel whither they would without fear of molestation. Pollux, Onom. viii. p.

159\. The office was generally given to old men, and they were believed to be

under the especial protection of Jove and Mercury.

BOOK I. 23

THE DEPARTURE OF BRISEIS FROM THE TENT OF

ACHILLES.

Patroclus now the unwilling beauty brought;

She, in soft sorrows, and in pensive thought,

Pass'd silent, as the heralds held her hand,

And of look'd back, slow-moving o'er the strand.

Not so his loss the fierce Achilles bore;

But sad, retiring to the sounding shore, [014]

O'er the wild margin of the deep he hung,

That kindred deep from whence his mother sprung:61

There bathed in tears of anger and disdain,

Thus loud lamented to the stormy main:

61 His mother, Thetis, the daughter of Nereus and Doris, who was courted by

Neptune and Jupiter. When, however, it was known that the son to whom she

would give birth must prove greater than his father, it was determined to wed

her to a mortal, and Peleus, with great difficulty, succeeded in obtaining her

hand, as she eluded him by assuming various forms. Her children were all

destroyed by fire through her attempts to see whether they were immortal, and

Achilles would have shared the same fate had not his father rescued him. She

afterwards rendered him invulnerable by plunging him into the waters of the

Styx, with the exception of that part of the heel by which she held him. Hygin.

Fab. 54

24 The Iliad of Homer

"O parent goddess! since in early bloom

Thy son must fall, by too severe a doom;

Sure to so short a race of glory born,

Great Jove in justice should this span adorn:

Honour and fame at least the thunderer owed;

And ill he pays the promise of a god,

If yon proud monarch thus thy son defies,

Obscures my glories, and resumes my prize."

Far from the deep recesses of the main,

Where aged Ocean holds his watery reign,

The goddess-mother heard. The waves divide;

And like a mist she rose above the tide;

Beheld him mourning on the naked shores,

And thus the sorrows of his soul explores.

"Why grieves my son? Thy anguish let me share;

Reveal the cause, and trust a parent's care."

He deeply sighing said: "To tell my woe

Is but to mention what too well you know.

From Thebe, sacred to Apollo's name62

(Aetion's realm), our conquering army came,

With treasure loaded and triumphant spoils,

Whose just division crown'd the soldier's toils;

But bright Chryseis, heavenly prize! was led,

By vote selected, to the general's bed.

The priest of Phoebus sought by gifts to gain

His beauteous daughter from the victor's chain;

The fleet he reach'd, and, lowly bending down,

Held forth the sceptre and the laurel crown,

Intreating all; but chief implored for grace

The brother-kings of Atreus' royal race:

The generous Greeks their joint consent declare,

62 Thebe was a city of Mysia, north of Adramyttium.

BOOK I. 25

The priest to reverence, and release the fair;

Not so Atrides: he, with wonted pride,

The sire insulted, and his gifts denied:

The insulted sire (his god's peculiar care)

To Phoebus pray'd, and Phoebus heard the prayer:

A dreadful plague ensues: the avenging darts

Incessant fly, and pierce the Grecian hearts. [015]

A prophet then, inspired by heaven, arose,

And points the crime, and thence derives the woes:

Myself the first the assembled chiefs incline

To avert the vengeance of the power divine;

Then rising in his wrath, the monarch storm'd;

Incensed he threaten'd, and his threats perform'd:

The fair Chryseis to her sire was sent,

With offer'd gifts to make the god relent;

But now he seized Briseis' heavenly charms,

And of my valour's prize defrauds my arms,

Defrauds the votes of all the Grecian train;63

And service, faith, and justice, plead in vain.

But, goddess! thou thy suppliant son attend.

To high Olympus' shining court ascend,

Urge all the ties to former service owed,

And sue for vengeance to the thundering god.

Oft hast thou triumph'd in the glorious boast,

That thou stood'st forth of all the ethereal host,

When bold rebellion shook the realms above,

The undaunted guard of cloud-compelling Jove:

When the bright partner of his awful reign,

The warlike maid, and monarch of the main,

The traitor-gods, by mad ambition driven,

Durst threat with chains the omnipotence of Heaven.

Then, call'd by thee, the monster Titan came

63 That is, defrauds me of the prize allotted me by their votes.

26 The Iliad of Homer

[016] (Whom gods Briareus, men Ægeon name),

Through wondering skies enormous stalk'd along;

Not he that shakes the solid earth so strong:

With giant-pride at Jove's high throne he stands,

And brandish'd round him all his hundred hands:

The affrighted gods confess'd their awful lord,

They dropp'd the fetters, trembled, and adored.64

This, goddess, this to his remembrance call,

Embrace his knees, at his tribunal fall;

Conjure him far to drive the Grecian train,

To hurl them headlong to their fleet and main,

To heap the shores with copious death, and bring

The Greeks to know the curse of such a king.

Let Agamemnon lift his haughty head

O'er all his wide dominion of the dead,

And mourn in blood that e'er he durst disgrace

The boldest warrior of the Grecian race."

"Unhappy son! (fair Thetis thus replies,

While tears celestial trickle from her eyes)

Why have I borne thee with a mother's throes,

To Fates averse, and nursed for future woes?65

So short a space the light of heaven to view!

So short a space! and fill'd with sorrow too!

64 Quintus Calaber goes still further in his account of the service rendered to

Jove by Thetis:

"Nay more, the fetters of Almighty Jove

She loosed"—Dyce's "Calaber," s. 58.

65 —To Fates averse. Of the gloomy destiny reigning throughout the Homeric

poems, and from which even the gods are not exempt, Schlegel well observes,

"This power extends also to the world of gods— for the Grecian gods

are mere powers of nature—and although immeasurably higher than mortal

man, yet, compared with infinitude, they are on an equal footing with

himself."—'Lectures on the Drama' v. p. 67.

BOOK I. 27

THETIS CALLING BRIAREUS TO THE ASSISTANCE OF

JUPITER.

O might a parent's careful wish prevail,

Far, far from Ilion should thy vessels sail,

And thou, from camps remote, the danger shun

Which now, alas! too nearly threats my son.

Yet (what I can) to move thy suit I'll go

To great Olympus crown'd with fleecy snow.

Meantime, secure within thy ships, from far

Behold the field, not mingle in the war.

The sire of gods and all the ethereal train,

On the warm limits of the farthest main,

Now mix with mortals, nor disdain to grace

The feasts of Æthiopia's blameless race,66

[017]

66 It has been observed that the annual procession of the sacred ship so often

represented on Egyptian monuments, and the return of the deity from Ethiopia

after some days' absence, serves to show the Ethiopian origin of Thebes, and

of the worship of Jupiter Ammon. "I think," says Heeren, after quoting a

passage from Diodorus about the holy ship, "that this procession is represented

in one of the great sculptured reliefs on the temple of Karnak. The sacred ship

28 The Iliad of Homer

Twelve days the powers indulge the genial rite,

Returning with the twelfth revolving light.

Then will I mount the brazen dome, and move

The high tribunal of immortal Jove."

The goddess spoke: the rolling waves unclose;

Then down the steep she plunged from whence she rose,

And left him sorrowing on the lonely coast,

In wild resentment for the fair he lost.

In Chrysa's port now sage Ulysses rode;

Beneath the deck the destined victims stow'd:

The sails they furl'd, they lash the mast aside,

And dropp'd their anchors, and the pinnace tied.

Next on the shore their hecatomb they land;

Chryseis last descending on the strand.

Her, thus returning from the furrow'd main,

Ulysses led to Phoebus' sacred fane;

Where at his solemn altar, as the maid

He gave to Chryses, thus the hero said:

"Hail, reverend priest! to Phoebus' awful dome

A suppliant I from great Atrides come:

Unransom'd, here receive the spotless fair;

Accept the hecatomb the Greeks prepare;

And may thy god who scatters darts around,

Atoned by sacrifice, desist to wound."67

of Ammon is on the shore with its whole equipment, and is towed along by

another boat. It is therefore on its voyage. This must have been one of the most

celebrated festivals, since, even according to the interpretation of antiquity,

Homer alludes to it when he speaks of Jupiter's visit to the Ethiopians, and his

twelve days' absence."—Long, "Egyptian Antiquities" vol. 1 p. 96. Eustathius,

vol. 1 p. 98, sq. (ed. Basil) gives this interpretation, and likewise an allegorical

one, which we will spare the reader.

67 —Atoned, i.e. reconciled. This is the proper and most natural meaning of

the word, as may be seen from Taylor's remarks in Calmet's Dictionary, p.110,

of my edition.

BOOK I. 29

At this, the sire embraced the maid again,

So sadly lost, so lately sought in vain.

Then near the altar of the darting king,

Disposed in rank their hecatomb they bring;

With water purify their hands, and take

The sacred offering of the salted cake;

While thus with arms devoutly raised in air,

And solemn voice, the priest directs his prayer:

"God of the silver bow, thy ear incline,

Whose power incircles Cilla the divine;

Whose sacred eye thy Tenedos surveys,

And gilds fair Chrysa with distinguish'd rays!

If, fired to vengeance at thy priest's request,

Thy direful darts inflict the raging pest:

Once more attend! avert the wasteful woe,

And smile propitious, and unbend thy bow."

So Chryses pray'd. Apollo heard his prayer:

And now the Greeks their hecatomb prepare;

Between their horns the salted barley threw,

And, with their heads to heaven, the victims slew:68

[018]

68 That is, drawing back their necks while they cut their throats. "If the

sacrifice was in honour of the celestial gods, the throat was bent upwards

towards heaven; but if made to the heroes, or infernal deities, it was killed with

its throat toward the ground."— "Elgin Marbles," vol i. p.81.

"The jolly crew, unmindful of the past,

The quarry share, their plenteous dinner haste,

Some strip the skin; some portion out the spoil;

The limbs yet trembling, in the caldrons boil;

Some on the fire the reeking entrails broil.

Stretch'd on the grassy turf, at ease they dine,

Restore their strength with meat, and cheer their souls with wine."

Dryden's "Virgil," i. 293.

30 The Iliad of Homer

The limbs they sever from the inclosing hide;

The thighs, selected to the gods, divide:

On these, in double cauls involved with art,

The choicest morsels lay from every part.

The priest himself before his altar stands,

And burns the offering with his holy hands.

Pours the black wine, and sees the flames aspire;

The youth with instruments surround the fire:

The thighs thus sacrificed, and entrails dress'd,

The assistants part, transfix, and roast the rest:

Then spread the tables, the repast prepare;

Each takes his seat, and each receives his share.

When now the rage of hunger was repress'd,

With pure libations they conclude the feast;

The youths with wine the copious goblets crown'd,

And, pleased, dispense the flowing bowls around;69

With hymns divine the joyous banquet ends,

The paeans lengthen'd till the sun descends:

The Greeks, restored, the grateful notes prolong;

Apollo listens, and approves the song.

'Twas night; the chiefs beside their vessel lie,

Till rosy morn had purpled o'er the sky:

Then launch, and hoist the mast: indulgent gales,

Supplied by Phoebus, fill the swelling sails;

The milk-white canvas bellying as they blow,

The parted ocean foams and roars below:

Above the bounding billows swift they flew,

Till now the Grecian camp appear'd in view.

Far on the beach they haul their bark to land,

(The crooked keel divides the yellow sand,)

Then part, where stretch'd along the winding bay,

69 —Crown'd, i.e. filled to the brim. The custom of adorning goblets with

flowers was of later date.

BOOK I. 31

The ships and tents in mingled prospect lay.

But raging still, amidst his navy sat

The stern Achilles, stedfast in his hate;

Nor mix'd in combat, nor in council join'd;

But wasting cares lay heavy on his mind:

In his black thoughts revenge and slaughter roll,

And scenes of blood rise dreadful in his soul.

Twelve days were past, and now the dawning light

The gods had summon'd to the Olympian height:

Jove, first ascending from the watery bowers,

Leads the long order of ethereal powers.

When, like the morning-mist in early day,

Rose from the flood the daughter of the sea: [019]

And to the seats divine her flight address'd.

There, far apart, and high above the rest,

The thunderer sat; where old Olympus shrouds

His hundred heads in heaven, and props the clouds.

Suppliant the goddess stood: one hand she placed

Beneath his beard, and one his knees embraced.

"If e'er, O father of the gods! (she said)

My words could please thee, or my actions aid,

Some marks of honour on my son bestow,

And pay in glory what in life you owe.

Fame is at least by heavenly promise due

To life so short, and now dishonour'd too.

Avenge this wrong, O ever just and wise!

Let Greece be humbled, and the Trojans rise;

Till the proud king and all the Achaian race

Shall heap with honours him they now disgrace."

32 The Iliad of Homer

THETIS ENTREATING JUPITER TO HONOUR ACHILLES.

Thus Thetis spoke; but Jove in silence held

The sacred counsels of his breast conceal'd.

Not so repulsed, the goddess closer press'd,

Still grasp'd his knees, and urged the dear request.

"O sire of gods and men! thy suppliant hear;

Refuse, or grant; for what has Jove to fear?

Or oh! declare, of all the powers above,

Is wretched Thetis least the care of Jove?"

She said; and, sighing, thus the god replies,

Who rolls the thunder o'er the vaulted skies:

BOOK I. 33

"What hast thou ask'd? ah, why should Jove engage

In foreign contests and domestic rage,

The gods' complaints, and Juno's fierce alarms,

While I, too partial, aid the Trojan arms?

Go, lest the haughty partner of my sway

With jealous eyes thy close access survey;

But part in peace, secure thy prayer is sped:

Witness the sacred honours of our head,

The nod that ratifies the will divine,

The faithful, fix'd, irrevocable sign;

This seals thy suit, and this fulfils thy vows—"

He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows,70

Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,

The stamp of fate and sanction of the god:

High heaven with trembling the dread signal took,

And all Olympus to the centre shook.71

Swift to the seas profound the goddess flies,

Jove to his starry mansions in the skies.

The shining synod of the immortals wait

The coming god, and from their thrones of state

Arising silent, wrapp'd in holy fear,

70 —He spoke, &c. "When a friend inquired of Phidias what pattern he had

formed his Olympian Jupiter, he is said to have answered by repeating the lines

of the first Iliad in which the poet represents the majesty of the god in the most

sublime terms; thereby signifying that the genius of Homer had inspired him

with it. Those who beheld this statue are said to have been so struck with it as

to have asked whether Jupiter had descended from heaven to show himself to

Phidias, or whether Phidias had been carried thither to contemplate the god."—

"Elgin Marbles," vol. xii p.124.

71

"So was his will

Pronounced among the gods, and by an oath,

That shook heav'n's whole circumference, confirm'd."

"Paradise Lost" ii. 351.

34 The Iliad of Homer

Before the majesty of heaven appear.

Trembling they stand, while Jove assumes the throne,

All, but the god's imperious queen alone:

Late had she view'd the silver-footed dame,

And all her passions kindled into flame.

"Say, artful manager of heaven (she cries),

Who now partakes the secrets of the skies?

Thy Juno knows not the decrees of fate,

In vain the partner of imperial state.

What favourite goddess then those cares divides,

Which Jove in prudence from his consort hides?"

To this the thunderer: "Seek not thou to find

The sacred counsels of almighty mind:

Involved in darkness likes the great decree,

Nor can the depths of fate be pierced by thee.

What fits thy knowledge, thou the first shalt know;

The first of gods above, and men below;

But thou, nor they, shall search the thoughts that roll

Deep in the close recesses of my soul."

Full on the sire the goddess of the skies

Roll'd the large orbs of her majestic eyes,

And thus return'd:—"Austere Saturnius, say,

[021] From whence this wrath, or who controls thy sway?

Thy boundless will, for me, remains in force,

And all thy counsels take the destined course.

But 'tis for Greece I fear: for late was seen,

In close consult, the silver-footed queen.

Jove to his Thetis nothing could deny,

Nor was the signal vain that shook the sky.

What fatal favour has the goddess won,

To grace her fierce, inexorable son?

Perhaps in Grecian blood to drench the plain,

And glut his vengeance with my people slain."

BOOK I. 35

Then thus the god: "O restless fate of pride,

That strives to learn what heaven resolves to hide;

Vain is the search, presumptuous and abhorr'd,

Anxious to thee, and odious to thy lord.

Let this suffice: the immutable decree

No force can shake: what is, that ought to be.

Goddess, submit; nor dare our will withstand,

But dread the power of this avenging hand:

The united strength of all the gods above

In vain resists the omnipotence of Jove."

VULCAN.

36 The Iliad of Homer

The thunderer spoke, nor durst the queen reply;

A reverent horror silenced all the sky.

The feast disturb'd, with sorrow Vulcan saw

His mother menaced, and the gods in awe;

Peace at his heart, and pleasure his design,

Thus interposed the architect divine:

"The wretched quarrels of the mortal state

Are far unworthy, gods! of your debate:

Let men their days in senseless strife employ,

We, in eternal peace and constant joy.

Thou, goddess-mother, with our sire comply,

Nor break the sacred union of the sky:

Lest, roused to rage, he shake the bless'd abodes,

[022] Launch the red lightning, and dethrone the gods.

If you submit, the thunderer stands appeased;

The gracious power is willing to be pleased."

Thus Vulcan spoke: and rising with a bound,

The double bowl with sparkling nectar crown'd,72

Which held to Juno in a cheerful way,

"Goddess (he cried), be patient and obey.

Dear as you are, if Jove his arm extend,

I can but grieve, unable to defend

What god so daring in your aid to move,

Or lift his hand against the force of Jove?

Once in your cause I felt his matchless might,

Hurl'd headlong down from the ethereal height;73

72 —A double bowl, i.e. a vessel with a cup at both ends, something like the

measures by which a halfpenny or pennyworth of nuts is sold. See Buttmann,

Lexic. p. 93 sq.

73 "Paradise Lost," i. 44.

"Him th' Almighty power

Hurl'd headlong flaming from th ethereal sky,

With hideous ruin and combustion"

BOOK I. 37

Toss'd all the day in rapid circles round,

Nor till the sun descended touch'd the ground.

Breathless I fell, in giddy motion lost;

The Sinthians raised me on the Lemnian coast;74

He said, and to her hands the goblet heaved,

Which, with a smile, the white-arm'd queen received

Then, to the rest he fill'd; and in his turn,

Each to his lips applied the nectar'd urn,

Vulcan with awkward grace his office plies,

And unextinguish'd laughter shakes the skies.

Thus the blest gods the genial day prolong,

In feasts ambrosial, and celestial song.75

Apollo tuned the lyre; the Muses round

With voice alternate aid the silver sound. [023]

of ranks and duties, its contentions for power and occasional revolutions, its

public meetings in the agora of Olympus, and its multitudinous banquets or

festivals."

74 The occasion on which Vulcan incurred Jove's displeasure was this—After

Hercules, had taken and pillaged Troy, Juno raised a storm, which drove him

to the island of Cos, having previously cast Jove into a sleep, to prevent him

aiding his son. Jove, in revenge, fastened iron anvils to her feet, and hung her

from the sky, and Vulcan, attempting to relieve her, was kicked down from

Olympus in the manner described. The allegorists have gone mad in finding

deep explanations for this amusing fiction. See Heraclides, 'Ponticus," p. 463

sq., ed Gale. The story is told by Homer himself in Book xv. The Sinthians

were a race of robbers, the ancient inhabitants of Lemnos which island was

ever after sacred to Vulcan.

"Nor was his name unheard or unadored

In ancient Greece, and in Ausonian land

Men call'd him Mulciber, and how he fell

From heaven, they fabled, thrown by angry Jove

Sheer o'er the crystal battlements from morn

To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,

A summer's day and with the setting sun

Dropp'd from the zenith like a falling star

38 The Iliad of Homer

Meantime the radiant sun to mortal sight

Descending swift, roll'd down the rapid light:

Then to their starry domes the gods depart,

The shining monuments of Vulcan's art:

Jove on his couch reclined his awful head,

And Juno slumber'd on the golden bed.

JUPITER.

[024]

On Lemnos, th' Aegean isle thus they relate."

"Paradise Lost," i. 738

75 It is ingeniously observed by Grote, vol i p. 463, that "The gods formed a

sort of political community of their own which had its hierarchy, its distribution

BOOK I. 39

THE APOTHEOSIS OF HOMER.

[025]

BOOK II.

ARGUMENT.

THE TRIAL OF THE ARMY, AND CATALOGUE OF THE

FORCES.

Jupiter, in pursuance of the request of Thetis, sends a deceitful

vision to Agamemnon, persuading him to lead the army to battle,

in order to make the Greeks sensible of their want of Achilles.

The general, who is deluded with the hopes of taking Troy

without his assistance, but fears the army was discouraged by

his absence, and the late plague, as well as by the length of time,

contrives to make trial of their disposition by a stratagem. He first

communicates his design to the princes in council, that he would

propose a return to the soldiers, and that they should put a stop to

them if the proposal was embraced. Then he assembles the whole

host, and upon moving for a return to Greece, they unanimously

agree to it, and run to prepare the ships. They are detained

by the management of Ulysses, who chastises the insolence of

Thersites. The assembly is recalled, several speeches made on

the occasion, and at length the advice of Nestor followed, which

was to make a general muster of the troops, and to divide them

into their several nations, before they proceeded to battle. This

gives occasion to the poet to enumerate all the forces of the

Greeks and Trojans, and in a large catalogue.

The time employed in this book consists not entirely of one

day. The scene lies in the Grecian camp, and upon the sea-shore;

towards the end it removes to Troy.

42 The Iliad of Homer

Now pleasing sleep had seal'd each mortal eye,

Stretch'd in the tents the Grecian leaders lie:

The immortals slumber'd on their thrones above;

All, but the ever-wakeful eyes of Jove.76

To honour Thetis' son he bends his care,

And plunge the Greeks in all the woes of war:

Then bids an empty phantom rise to sight,

And thus commands the vision of the night.

"Fly hence, deluding Dream! and light as air,77

[026] To Agamemnon's ample tent repair.

Bid him in arms draw forth the embattled train,

Lead all his Grecians to the dusty plain.

Declare, e'en now 'tis given him to destroy

The lofty towers of wide-extended Troy.

For now no more the gods with fate contend,

At Juno's suit the heavenly factions end.

Destruction hangs o'er yon devoted wall,

And nodding Ilion waits the impending fall."

76 Plato, Rep. iii. p. 437, was so scandalized at this deception of Jupiter's, and

at his other attacks on the character of the gods, that he would fain sentence him

to an honourable banishment. (See Minucius Felix, Section 22.) Coleridge,

Introd. p. 154, well observes, that the supreme father of gods and men had

a full right to employ a lying spirit to work out his ultimate will. Compare

"Paradise Lost," v. 646:

"And roseate dews disposed

All but the unsleeping eyes of God to rest."

77 —Dream ought to be spelt with a capital letter, being, I think, evidently

personified as the god of dreams. See Anthon and others.

"When, by Minerva sent, a fraudful Dream

Rush'd from the skies, the bane of her and Troy."

Dyce's "Select Translations from Quintus Calaber," p.10.

BOOK II. 43

Swift as the word the vain illusion fled,

Descends, and hovers o'er Atrides' head;

Clothed in the figure of the Pylian sage,

Renown'd for wisdom, and revered for age:

Around his temples spreads his golden wing,

And thus the flattering dream deceives the king.

JUPITER SENDING THE EVIL DREAM TO AGAMEMNON.

"Canst thou, with all a monarch's cares oppress'd,

O Atreus' son! canst thou indulge the rest?78

Ill fits a chief who mighty nations guides,

Directs in council, and in war presides,

To whom its safety a whole people owes,

78

"Sleep'st thou, companion dear, what sleep can close

Thy eye-lids?"

—"Paradise Lost," v. 673.

44 The Iliad of Homer

To waste long nights in indolent repose.79

Monarch, awake! 'tis Jove's command I bear;

Thou, and thy glory, claim his heavenly care.

In just array draw forth the embattled train,

[027] Lead all thy Grecians to the dusty plain;

E'en now, O king! 'tis given thee to destroy

The lofty towers of wide-extended Troy.

For now no more the gods with fate contend,

At Juno's suit the heavenly factions end.

Destruction hangs o'er yon devoted wall,

And nodding Ilion waits the impending fall.

Awake, but waking this advice approve,

And trust the vision that descends from Jove."

The phantom said; then vanish'd from his sight,

Resolves to air, and mixes with the night.

A thousand schemes the monarch's mind employ;

Elate in thought he sacks untaken Troy:

Vain as he was, and to the future blind,

Nor saw what Jove and secret fate design'd,

What mighty toils to either host remain,

What scenes of grief, and numbers of the slain!

Eager he rises, and in fancy hears

The voice celestial murmuring in his ears.

First on his limbs a slender vest he drew,

Around him next the regal mantle threw,

The embroider'd sandals on his feet were tied;

The starry falchion glitter'd at his side;

And last, his arm the massy sceptre loads,

79 This truly military sentiment has been echoed by the approving voice of

many a general and statesman of antiquity. See Pliny's Panegyric on Trajan.

Silius neatly translates it,

"Turpe duci totam somno consumere noctem."

BOOK II. 45

Unstain'd, immortal, and the gift of gods.

Now rosy Morn ascends the court of Jove,

Lifts up her light, and opens day above.

The king despatch'd his heralds with commands

To range the camp and summon all the bands:

The gathering hosts the monarch's word obey;

While to the fleet Atrides bends his way.

In his black ship the Pylian prince he found;

There calls a senate of the peers around:

The assembly placed, the king of men express'd

The counsels labouring in his artful breast.

"Friends and confederates! with attentive ear

Receive my words, and credit what you hear.

Late as I slumber'd in the shades of night,

A dream divine appear'd before my sight;

Whose visionary form like Nestor came,

The same in habit, and in mien the same.80

The heavenly phantom hover'd o'er my head,

'And, dost thou sleep, O Atreus' son? (he said)

Ill fits a chief who mighty nations guides,

Directs in council, and in war presides;

To whom its safety a whole people owes,

To waste long nights in indolent repose. [028]

80 —The same in habit, &c.

"To whom once more the winged god appears;

His former youthful mien and shape he wears."

Dryden's Virgil, iv. 803.

46 The Iliad of Homer

Monarch, awake! 'tis Jove's command I bear,

Thou and thy glory claim his heavenly care.

In just array draw forth the embattled train,

And lead the Grecians to the dusty plain;

E'en now, O king! 'tis given thee to destroy

The lofty towers of wide-extended Troy.

For now no more the gods with fate contend,

At Juno's suit the heavenly factions end.

Destruction hangs o'er yon devoted wall,

And nodding Ilion waits the impending fall.

This hear observant, and the gods obey!'

The vision spoke, and pass'd in air away.

Now, valiant chiefs! since heaven itself alarms,

Unite, and rouse the sons of Greece to arms.

But first, with caution, try what yet they dare,

Worn with nine years of unsuccessful war.

To move the troops to measure back the main,

Be mine; and yours the province to detain."

He spoke, and sat: when Nestor, rising said,

(Nestor, whom Pylos' sandy realms obey'd,)

"Princes of Greece, your faithful ears incline,

Nor doubt the vision of the powers divine;

Sent by great Jove to him who rules the host,

Forbid it, heaven! this warning should be lost!

Then let us haste, obey the god's alarms,

And join to rouse the sons of Greece to arms."

BOOK II. 47

Thus spoke the sage: the kings without delay

Dissolve the council, and their chief obey:

The sceptred rulers lead; the following host,

Pour'd forth by thousands, darkens all the coast.

As from some rocky cleft the shepherd sees

Clustering in heaps on heaps the driving bees,

Rolling and blackening, swarms succeeding swarms,

With deeper murmurs and more hoarse alarms;

Dusky they spread, a close embodied crowd,

And o'er the vale descends the living cloud.81

So, from the tents and ships, a lengthen'd train

Spreads all the beach, and wide o'ershades the plain:

Along the region runs a deafening sound;

Beneath their footsteps groans the trembling ground.

Fame flies before the messenger of Jove,

And shining soars, and claps her wings above. [029]

Nine sacred heralds now, proclaiming loud82

The monarch's will, suspend the listening crowd.

Soon as the throngs in order ranged appear,

And fainter murmurs died upon the ear,

The king of kings his awful figure raised:

81

"As bees in spring-time, when

The sun with Taurus rides,

Pour forth their populous youth about the hive

In clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers

Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank,

The suburb of this straw-built citadel,

New-nibb'd with balm, expatiate and confer

Their state affairs. So thick the very crowd

Swarm'd and were straiten'd."—"Paradise Lost" i. 768.

82 It was the herald's duty to make the people sit down. "A standing agora

is a symptom of manifest terror (II. Xviii. 246) an evening agora, to which

men came elevated by wine, is also the forerunner of mischief ('Odyssey,' iii.

138)."—Grote, ii. p. 91, note.

48 The Iliad of Homer

High in his hand the golden sceptre blazed;

The golden sceptre, of celestial flame,

By Vulcan form'd, from Jove to Hermes came.

To Pelops he the immortal gift resign'd;

The immortal gift great Pelops left behind,

In Atreus' hand, which not with Atreus ends,

To rich Thyestes next the prize descends;

And now the mark of Agamemnon's reign,

Subjects all Argos, and controls the main.83

On this bright sceptre now the king reclined,

And artful thus pronounced the speech design'd:

"Ye sons of Mars, partake your leader's care,

Heroes of Greece, and brothers of the war!

Of partial Jove with justice I complain,

And heavenly oracles believed in vain

A safe return was promised to our toils,

Renown'd, triumphant, and enrich'd with spoils.

Now shameful flight alone can save the host,

Our blood, our treasure, and our glory lost.

83 This sceptre, like that of Judah (Genesis xlix. 10), is a type of the supreme

and far-spread dominion of the house of the Atrides. See Thucydides i. 9. "It

is traced through the hands of Hermes, he being the wealth giving god, whose

blessing is most efficacious in furthering the process of acquisition."—Grote,

i. p. 212. Compare Quintus Calaber (Dyce's Selections, p. 43).

"Thus the monarch spoke,

Then pledged the chief in a capacious cup,

Golden, and framed by art divine (a gift

Which to Almighty Jove lame Vulcan brought

Upon his nuptial day, when he espoused

The Queen of Love), the sire of gods bestow'd

The cup on Dardanus, who gave it next

To Ericthonius Tros received it then,

And left it, with his wealth, to be possess'd

By Ilus he to great Laomedon

Gave it, and last to Priam's lot it fell."

BOOK II. 49

So Jove decrees, resistless lord of all!

At whose command whole empires rise or fall:

He shakes the feeble props of human trust,

And towns and armies humbles to the dust

What shame to Greece a fruitful war to wage,

Oh, lasting shame in every future age!

Once great in arms, the common scorn we grow,

Repulsed and baffled by a feeble foe.

So small their number, that if wars were ceased,

And Greece triumphant held a general feast, [030]

All rank'd by tens, whole decades when they dine

Must want a Trojan slave to pour the wine.84

But other forces have our hopes o'erthrown,

And Troy prevails by armies not her own.

Now nine long years of mighty Jove are run,

Since first the labours of this war begun:

Our cordage torn, decay'd our vessels lie,

And scarce insure the wretched power to fly.

Haste, then, for ever leave the Trojan wall!

Our weeping wives, our tender children call:

Love, duty, safety, summon us away,

'Tis nature's voice, and nature we obey,

Our shatter'd barks may yet transport us o'er,

Safe and inglorious, to our native shore.

Fly, Grecians, fly, your sails and oars employ,

And dream no more of heaven-defended Troy."

His deep design unknown, the hosts approve

Atrides' speech. The mighty numbers move.

So roll the billows to the Icarian shore,

From east and south when winds begin to roar,

Burst their dark mansions in the clouds, and sweep

84 Grote, i, p. 393, states the number of the Grecian forces at upwards of

100,000 men. Nichols makes a total of 135,000.

50 The Iliad of Homer

The whitening surface of the ruffled deep.

And as on corn when western gusts descend,85

Before the blast the lofty harvests bend:

Thus o'er the field the moving host appears,

With nodding plumes and groves of waving spears.

The gathering murmur spreads, their trampling feet

Beat the loose sands, and thicken to the fleet;

With long-resounding cries they urge the train

To fit the ships, and launch into the main.

They toil, they sweat, thick clouds of dust arise,

The doubling clamours echo to the skies.

E'en then the Greeks had left the hostile plain,

And fate decreed the fall of Troy in vain;

But Jove's imperial queen their flight survey'd,

And sighing thus bespoke the blue-eyed maid:

"Shall then the Grecians fly! O dire disgrace!

And leave unpunish'd this perfidious race?

Shall Troy, shall Priam, and the adulterous spouse,

In peace enjoy the fruits of broken vows?

And bravest chiefs, in Helen's quarrel slain,

Lie unrevenged on yon detested plain?

No: let my Greeks, unmoved by vain alarms,

[031] Once more refulgent shine in brazen arms.

Haste, goddess, haste! the flying host detain,

Nor let one sail be hoisted on the main."

85

"As thick as when a field

Of Ceres, ripe for harvest, waving bends

His bearded grove of ears, which way the wind

Sways them."—Paradise Lost," iv. 980, sqq.

BOOK II. 51

Pallas obeys, and from Olympus' height

Swift to the ships precipitates her flight.

Ulysses, first in public cares, she found,

For prudent counsel like the gods renown'd:

Oppress'd with generous grief the hero stood,

Nor drew his sable vessels to the flood.

"And is it thus, divine Laertes' son,

Thus fly the Greeks (the martial maid begun),

Thus to their country bear their own disgrace,

And fame eternal leave to Priam's race?

Shall beauteous Helen still remain unfreed,

Still unrevenged, a thousand heroes bleed!

Haste, generous Ithacus! prevent the shame,

Recall your armies, and your chiefs reclaim.

Your own resistless eloquence employ,

And to the immortals trust the fall of Troy."

The voice divine confess'd the warlike maid,

Ulysses heard, nor uninspired obey'd:

Then meeting first Atrides, from his hand

Received the imperial sceptre of command.

Thus graced, attention and respect to gain,

He runs, he flies through all the Grecian train;

Each prince of name, or chief in arms approved,

He fired with praise, or with persuasion moved.

"Warriors like you, with strength and wisdom bless'd,

By brave examples should confirm the rest.

The monarch's will not yet reveal'd appears;

He tries our courage, but resents our fears.

The unwary Greeks his fury may provoke;

Not thus the king in secret council spoke.

Jove loves our chief, from Jove his honour springs,

Beware! for dreadful is the wrath of kings."

52 The Iliad of Homer

But if a clamorous vile plebeian rose,

Him with reproof he check'd or tamed with blows.

"Be still, thou slave, and to thy betters yield;

Unknown alike in council and in field!

Ye gods, what dastards would our host command!

Swept to the war, the lumber of a land.

Be silent, wretch, and think not here allow'd

That worst of tyrants, an usurping crowd.

To one sole monarch Jove commits the sway;

His are the laws, and him let all obey."86

With words like these the troops Ulysses ruled,

[032] The loudest silenced, and the fiercest cool'd.

Back to the assembly roll the thronging train,

Desert the ships, and pour upon the plain.

Murmuring they move, as when old ocean roars,

And heaves huge surges to the trembling shores;

The groaning banks are burst with bellowing sound,

The rocks remurmur and the deeps rebound.

At length the tumult sinks, the noises cease,

And a still silence lulls the camp to peace.

Thersites only clamour'd in the throng,

Loquacious, loud, and turbulent of tongue:

Awed by no shame, by no respect controll'd,

In scandal busy, in reproaches bold:

With witty malice studious to defame,

Scorn all his joy, and laughter all his aim:—

But chief he gloried with licentious style

To lash the great, and monarchs to revile.

86 This sentiment used to be a popular one with some of the greatest tyrants,

who abused it into a pretext for unlimited usurpation of power. Dion, Caligula,

and Domitian were particularly fond of it, and, in an extended form, we find

the maxim propounded by Creon in the Antigone of Sophocles. See some

important remarks of Heeren, "Ancient Greece," ch. vi. p. 105.

BOOK II. 53

His figure such as might his soul proclaim;

One eye was blinking, and one leg was lame:

His mountain shoulders half his breast o'erspread,

Thin hairs bestrew'd his long misshapen head.

Spleen to mankind his envious heart possess'd,

And much he hated all, but most the best:

Ulysses or Achilles still his theme;

But royal scandal his delight supreme,

Long had he lived the scorn of every Greek,

Vex'd when he spoke, yet still they heard him speak.

Sharp was his voice; which in the shrillest tone,

Thus with injurious taunts attack'd the throne.

"Amidst the glories of so bright a reign,

What moves the great Atrides to complain?

'Tis thine whate'er the warrior's breast inflames,

The golden spoil, and thine the lovely dames.

With all the wealth our wars and blood bestow,

Thy tents are crowded and thy chests o'erflow.

Thus at full ease in heaps of riches roll'd,

What grieves the monarch? Is it thirst of gold?

Say, shall we march with our unconquer'd powers

(The Greeks and I) to Ilion's hostile towers,

And bring the race of royal bastards here,

For Troy to ransom at a price too dear?

But safer plunder thy own host supplies;

Say, wouldst thou seize some valiant leader's prize?

Or, if thy heart to generous love be led,

Some captive fair, to bless thy kingly bed?

Whate'er our master craves submit we must,

Plagued with his pride, or punish'd for his lust.

Oh women of Achaia; men no more!

Hence let us fly, and let him waste his store

In loves and pleasures on the Phrygian shore.

54 The Iliad of Homer

[033] We may be wanted on some busy day,

When Hector comes: so great Achilles may:

From him he forced the prize we jointly gave,

From him, the fierce, the fearless, and the brave:

And durst he, as he ought, resent that wrong,

This mighty tyrant were no tyrant long."

Fierce from his seat at this Ulysses springs,87

In generous vengeance of the king of kings.

With indignation sparkling in his eyes,

He views the wretch, and sternly thus replies:

"Peace, factious monster, born to vex the state,

With wrangling talents form'd for foul debate:

Curb that impetuous tongue, nor rashly vain,

And singly mad, asperse the sovereign reign.

Have we not known thee, slave! of all our host,

The man who acts the least, upbraids the most?

Think not the Greeks to shameful flight to bring,

87 It may be remarked, that the character of Thersites, revolting and

contemptible as it is, serves admirably to develop the disposition of Ulysses

in a new light, in which mere cunning is less prominent. Of the gradual

and individual development of Homer's heroes, Schlegel well observes, "In

bas-relief the figures are usually in profile, and in the epos all are characterized

in the simplest manner in relief; they are not grouped together, but follow one

another; so Homer's heroes advance, one by one, in succession before us. It

has been remarked that the Iliad is not definitively closed, but that we are left

to suppose something both to precede and to follow it. The bas-relief is equally

without limit, and may be continued ad infinitum, either from before or behind,

on which account the ancients preferred for it such subjects as admitted of an

indefinite extension, sacrificial processions, dances, and lines of combatants,

and hence they also exhibit bas-reliefs on curved surfaces, such as vases, or

the frieze of a rotunda, where, by the curvature, the two ends are withdrawn

from our sight, and where, while we advance, one object appears as another

disappears. Reading Homer is very much like such a circuit; the present

object alone arresting our attention, we lose sight of what precedes, and do not

concern ourselves about what is to follow."—"Dramatic Literature," p. 75.

BOOK II. 55

Nor let those lips profane the name of king.

For our return we trust the heavenly powers;

Be that their care; to fight like men be ours.

But grant the host with wealth the general load,

Except detraction, what hast thou bestow'd?

Suppose some hero should his spoils resign,

Art thou that hero, could those spoils be thine?

Gods! let me perish on this hateful shore,

And let these eyes behold my son no more;

If, on thy next offence, this hand forbear

To strip those arms thou ill deserv'st to wear,

Expel the council where our princes meet,

And send thee scourged and howling through the fleet."

He said, and cowering as the dastard bends,

The weighty sceptre on his bank descends.88

[034]

On the round bunch the bloody tumours rise:

The tears spring starting from his haggard eyes;

Trembling he sat, and shrunk in abject fears,

From his vile visage wiped the scalding tears;

While to his neighbour each express'd his thought:

88 "There cannot be a clearer indication than this description —so graphic in

the original poem—of the true character of the Homeric agora. The multitude

who compose it are listening and acquiescent, not often hesitating, and never

refractory to the chief. The fate which awaits a presumptuous critic, even

where his virulent reproaches are substantially well-founded, is plainly set

forth in the treatment of Thersites; while the unpopularity of such a character

is attested even more by the excessive pains which Homer takes to heap upon

him repulsive personal deformities, than by the chastisement of Odysseus he is

lame, bald, crook-backed, of misshapen head, and squinting vision."—Grote,

vol. i. p. 97.

56 The Iliad of Homer

"Ye gods! what wonders has Ulysses wrought!

What fruits his conduct and his courage yield!

Great in the council, glorious in the field.

Generous he rises in the crown's defence,

To curb the factious tongue of insolence,

Such just examples on offenders shown,

Sedition silence, and assert the throne."

'Twas thus the general voice the hero praised,

Who, rising, high the imperial sceptre raised:

The blue-eyed Pallas, his celestial friend,

(In form a herald,) bade the crowds attend.

The expecting crowds in still attention hung,

To hear the wisdom of his heavenly tongue.

Then deeply thoughtful, pausing ere he spoke,

His silence thus the prudent hero broke:

"Unhappy monarch! whom the Grecian race

With shame deserting, heap with vile disgrace.

Not such at Argos was their generous vow:

Once all their voice, but ah! forgotten now:

Ne'er to return, was then the common cry,

Till Troy's proud structures should in ashes lie.

Behold them weeping for their native shore;

What could their wives or helpless children more?

What heart but melts to leave the tender train,

And, one short month, endure the wintry main?

Few leagues removed, we wish our peaceful seat,

When the ship tosses, and the tempests beat:

Then well may this long stay provoke their tears,

The tedious length of nine revolving years.

Not for their grief the Grecian host I blame;

But vanquish'd! baffled! oh, eternal shame!

Expect the time to Troy's destruction given.

BOOK II. 57

And try the faith of Chalcas and of heaven.

What pass'd at Aulis, Greece can witness bear,89

And all who live to breathe this Phrygian air.

Beside a fountain's sacred brink we raised

Our verdant altars, and the victims blazed:

'Twas where the plane-tree spread its shades around,

The altars heaved; and from the crumbling ground

A mighty dragon shot, of dire portent;

From Jove himself the dreadful sign was sent. [035]

Straight to the tree his sanguine spires he roll'd,

And curl'd around in many a winding fold;

The topmost branch a mother-bird possess'd;

Eight callow infants fill'd the mossy nest;

Herself the ninth; the serpent, as he hung,

Stretch'd his black jaws and crush'd the crying young;

While hovering near, with miserable moan,

The drooping mother wail'd her children gone.

The mother last, as round the nest she flew,

Seized by the beating wing, the monster slew;

Nor long survived: to marble turn'd, he stands

A lasting prodigy on Aulis' sands.

Such was the will of Jove; and hence we dare

Trust in his omen, and support the war.

For while around we gazed with wondering eyes,

And trembling sought the powers with sacrifice,

Full of his god, the reverend Chalcas cried,90

'Ye Grecian warriors! lay your fears aside.

This wondrous signal Jove himself displays,

89 According to Pausanias, both the sprig and the remains of the tree were

exhibited in his time. The tragedians, Lucretius and others, adopted a different

fable to account for the stoppage at Aulis, and seem to have found the sacrifice

of Iphigena better suited to form the subject of a tragedy. Compare Dryden's

"Æneid," vol. iii. sqq.

90 —Full of his god, i.e., Apollo, filled with the prophetic spirit. "The god"

would be more simple and emphatic.

58 The Iliad of Homer

Of long, long labours, but eternal praise.

As many birds as by the snake were slain,

So many years the toils of Greece remain;

But wait the tenth, for Ilion's fall decreed:'

Thus spoke the prophet, thus the Fates succeed.

Obey, ye Grecians! with submission wait,

Nor let your flight avert the Trojan fate."

He said: the shores with loud applauses sound,

The hollow ships each deafening shout rebound.

Then Nestor thus—"These vain debates forbear,

Ye talk like children, not like heroes dare.

Where now are all your high resolves at last?

Your leagues concluded, your engagements past?

Vow'd with libations and with victims then,

Now vanish'd like their smoke: the faith of men!

While useless words consume the unactive hours,

No wonder Troy so long resists our powers.

Rise, great Atrides! and with courage sway;

We march to war, if thou direct the way.

But leave the few that dare resist thy laws,

The mean deserters of the Grecian cause,

To grudge the conquests mighty Jove prepares,

And view with envy our successful wars.

On that great day, when first the martial train,

Big with the fate of Ilion, plough'd the main,

Jove, on the right, a prosperous signal sent,

And thunder rolling shook the firmament.

Encouraged hence, maintain the glorious strife,

[036] Till every soldier grasp a Phrygian wife,

Till Helen's woes at full revenged appear,

And Troy's proud matrons render tear for tear.

Before that day, if any Greek invite

His country's troops to base, inglorious flight,

Stand forth that Greek! and hoist his sail to fly,

BOOK II. 59

And die the dastard first, who dreads to die.

But now, O monarch! all thy chiefs advise:91

Nor what they offer, thou thyself despise.

Among those counsels, let not mine be vain;

In tribes and nations to divide thy train:

His separate troops let every leader call,

Each strengthen each, and all encourage all.

What chief, or soldier, of the numerous band,

Or bravely fights, or ill obeys command,

When thus distinct they war, shall soon be known

And what the cause of Ilion not o'erthrown;

If fate resists, or if our arms are slow,

If gods above prevent, or men below."

To him the king: "How much thy years excel

In arts of counsel, and in speaking well!

O would the gods, in love to Greece, decree

But ten such sages as they grant in thee;

Such wisdom soon should Priam's force destroy,

And soon should fall the haughty towers of Troy!

But Jove forbids, who plunges those he hates

In fierce contention and in vain debates:

Now great Achilles from our aid withdraws,

By me provoked; a captive maid the cause:

If e'er as friends we join, the Trojan wall

Must shake, and heavy will the vengeance fall!

But now, ye warriors, take a short repast;

And, well refresh'd, to bloody conflict haste.

His sharpen'd spear let every Grecian wield,

And every Grecian fix his brazen shield,

Let all excite the fiery steeds of war,

91 Those critics who have maintained that the "Catalogue of Ships" is an

interpolation, should have paid more attention to these lines, which form a

most natural introduction to their enumeration.

60 The Iliad of Homer

And all for combat fit the rattling car.

This day, this dreadful day, let each contend;

No rest, no respite, till the shades descend;

Till darkness, or till death, shall cover all:

Let the war bleed, and let the mighty fall;

Till bathed in sweat be every manly breast,

With the huge shield each brawny arm depress'd,

Each aching nerve refuse the lance to throw,

And each spent courser at the chariot blow.

Who dares, inglorious, in his ships to stay,

Who dares to tremble on this signal day;

That wretch, too mean to fall by martial power,

The birds shall mangle, and the dogs devour."

[037]

The monarch spoke; and straight a murmur rose,

Loud as the surges when the tempest blows,

That dash'd on broken rocks tumultuous roar,

And foam and thunder on the stony shore.

Straight to the tents the troops dispersing bend,

The fires are kindled, and the smokes ascend;

With hasty feasts they sacrifice, and pray,

To avert the dangers of the doubtful day.

A steer of five years' age, large limb'd, and fed,92

To Jove's high altars Agamemnon led:

There bade the noblest of the Grecian peers;

92 The following observation will be useful to Homeric readers: "Particular

animals were, at a later time, consecrated to particular deities. To Jupiter,

Ceres, Juno, Apollo, and Bacchus victims of advanced age might be offered.

An ox of five years old was considered especially acceptable to Jupiter. A

black bull, a ram, or a boar pig, were offerings for Neptune. A heifer, or a

sheep, for Minerva. To Ceres a sow was sacrificed, as an enemy to corn. The

goat to Bacchus, because he fed on vines. Diana was propitiated with a stag;

and to Venus the dove was consecrated. The infernal and evil deities were to

be appeased with black victims. The most acceptable of all sacrifices was the

heifer of a year old, which had never borne the yoke. It was to be perfect in

every limb, healthy, and without blemish."—"Elgin Marbles," vol. i. p. 78.

BOOK II. 61

And Nestor first, as most advanced in years.

Next came Idomeneus,93

and Tydeus' son,94

Ajax the less, and Ajax Telamon;95

Then wise Ulysses in his rank was placed;

And Menelaus came, unbid, the last.96

The chiefs surround the destined beast, and take

The sacred offering of the salted cake:

When thus the king prefers his solemn prayer;

"O thou! whose thunder rends the clouded air,

Who in the heaven of heavens hast fixed thy throne,

Supreme of gods! unbounded, and alone!

Hear! and before the burning sun descends,

Before the night her gloomy veil extends,

Low in the dust be laid yon hostile spires,

Be Priam's palace sunk in Grecian fires.

In Hector's breast be plunged this shining sword,

And slaughter'd heroes groan around their lord!"

Thus prayed the chief: his unavailing prayer

Great Jove refused, and toss'd in empty air:

The God averse, while yet the fumes arose,

Prepared new toils, and doubled woes on woes.

Their prayers perform'd the chiefs the rite pursue,

93 —Idomeneus, son of Deucalion, was king of Crete. Having vowed, during

a tempest, on his return from Troy, to sacrifice to Neptune the first creature

that should present itself to his eye on the Cretan shore, his son fell a victim to

his rash vow.

94 —Tydeus' son, i.e. Diomed.

95 That is, Ajax, the son of Oileus, a Locrian. He must be distinguished from

the other, who was king of Salamis.

96 A great deal of nonsense has been written to account for the word unbid,

in this line. Even Plato, "Sympos." p. 315, has found some curious meaning

in what, to us, appears to need no explanation. Was there any heroic rule of

etiquette which prevented one brother-king visiting another without a formal

invitation?

62 The Iliad of Homer

[038] The barley sprinkled, and the victim slew.

The limbs they sever from the inclosing hide,

The thighs, selected to the gods, divide.

On these, in double cauls involved with art,

The choicest morsels lie from every part,

From the cleft wood the crackling flames aspire

While the fat victims feed the sacred fire.

The thighs thus sacrificed, and entrails dress'd

The assistants part, transfix, and roast the rest;

Then spread the tables, the repast prepare,

Each takes his seat, and each receives his share.

Soon as the rage of hunger was suppress'd,

The generous Nestor thus the prince address'd.

"Now bid thy heralds sound the loud alarms,

And call the squadrons sheathed in brazen arms;

Now seize the occasion, now the troops survey,

And lead to war when heaven directs the way."

He said; the monarch issued his commands;

Straight the loud heralds call the gathering bands

The chiefs inclose their king; the hosts divide,

In tribes and nations rank'd on either side.

High in the midst the blue-eyed virgin flies;

From rank to rank she darts her ardent eyes;

The dreadful aegis, Jove's immortal shield,

Blazed on her arm, and lighten'd all the field:

Round the vast orb a hundred serpents roll'd,

Form'd the bright fringe, and seem'd to burn in gold,

With this each Grecian's manly breast she warms,

Swells their bold hearts, and strings their nervous arms,

No more they sigh, inglorious, to return,

But breathe revenge, and for the combat burn.

BOOK II. 63

As on some mountain, through the lofty grove,

The crackling flames ascend, and blaze above;

The fires expanding, as the winds arise,

Shoot their long beams, and kindle half the skies:

So from the polish'd arms, and brazen shields,

A gleamy splendour flash'd along the fields.

Not less their number than the embodied cranes,

Or milk-white swans in Asius' watery plains.

That, o'er the windings of Cayster's springs,97

Stretch their long necks, and clap their rustling wings,

Now tower aloft, and course in airy rounds,

Now light with noise; with noise the field resounds.

Thus numerous and confused, extending wide,

The legions crowd Scamander's flowery side;98

[039]

With rushing troops the plains are cover'd o'er,

And thundering footsteps shake the sounding shore.

Along the river's level meads they stand,

97 Fresh water fowl, especially swans, were found in great numbers about the

Asian Marsh, a fenny tract of country in Lydia, formed by the river Cayster,

near its mouth. See Virgil, "Georgics," vol. i. 383, sq.

98 —Scamander, or Scamandros, was a river of Troas, rising, according to

Strabo, on the highest part of Mount Ida, in the same hill with the Granicus and

the OEdipus, and falling into the sea at Sigaeum; everything tends to identify it

with Mendere, as Wood, Rennell, and others maintain; theMendere is 40 miles

long, 300 feet broad, deep in the time of flood, nearly dry in the summer. Dr.

Clarke successfully combats the opinion of those who make the Scamander to

have arisen from the springs of Bounabarshy, and traces the source of the river

to the highest mountain in the chain of Ida, now Kusdaghy; receives the Simois

in its course; towards its mouth it is very muddy, and flows through marshes.

Between the Scamander and Simois, Homer's Troy is supposed to have stood:

this river, according to Homer, was called Xanthus by the gods, Scamander

by men. The waters of the Scamander had the singular property of giving a

beautiful colour to the hair or wool of such animals as bathed in them; hence the

three goddesses, Minerva, Juno, and Venus, bathed there before they appeared

before Paris to obtain the golden apple: the name Xanthus, "yellow," was given

to the Scamander, from the peculiar colour of its waters, still applicable to the

Mendere, the yellow colour of whose waters attracts the attention of travellers.

64 The Iliad of Homer

Thick as in spring the flowers adorn the land,

Or leaves the trees; or thick as insects play,

The wandering nation of a summer's day:

That, drawn by milky steams, at evening hours,

In gather'd swarms surround the rural bowers;

From pail to pail with busy murmur run

The gilded legions, glittering in the sun.

So throng'd, so close, the Grecian squadrons stood

In radiant arms, and thirst for Trojan blood.

Each leader now his scatter'd force conjoins

In close array, and forms the deepening lines.

Not with more ease the skilful shepherd-swain

Collects his flocks from thousands on the plain.

The king of kings, majestically tall,

Towers o'er his armies, and outshines them all;

Like some proud bull, that round the pastures leads

His subject herds, the monarch of the meads,

Great as the gods, the exalted chief was seen,

His strength like Neptune, and like Mars his mien;99

Jove o'er his eyes celestial glories spread,

And dawning conquest played around his head.

Say, virgins, seated round the throne divine,

All-knowing goddesses! immortal nine!100

99 It should be "his chest like Neptune." The torso of Neptune, in the "Elgin

Marbles," No. 103, (vol. ii. p. 26,) is remarkable for its breadth and

massiveness of development.

100

"Say first, for heav'n hides nothing from thy view."

—"Paradise Lost," i. 27.

"Ma di' tu, Musa, come i primi danni

Mandassero a Cristiani, e di quai parti:

Tu 'l sai; ma di tant' opra a noi si lunge

Debil aura di fama appena giunge."

—"Gier. Lib." iv. 19.

BOOK II. 65

Since earth's wide regions, heaven's umneasur'd height,

And hell's abyss, hide nothing from your sight,

(We, wretched mortals! lost in doubts below,

But guess by rumour, and but boast we know,)

O say what heroes, fired by thirst of fame,

Or urged by wrongs, to Troy's destruction came.

To count them all, demands a thousand tongues,

A throat of brass, and adamantine lungs.

Daughters of Jove, assist! inspired by you

The mighty labour dauntless I pursue; [040]

What crowded armies, from what climes they bring,

Their names, their numbers, and their chiefs I sing.

THE CATALOGUE OF THE SHIPS.101

The hardy warriors whom Boeotia bred,

Penelius, Leitus, Prothoenor, led:

101 "The Catalogue is, perhaps, the portion of the poem in favour of which

a claim to separate authorship has been most plausibly urged. Although the

example of Homer has since rendered some such formal enumeration of the

forces engaged, a common practice in epic poems descriptive of great warlike

adventures, still so minute a statistical detail can neither be considered as

imperatively required, nor perhaps such as would, in ordinary cases, suggest

itself to the mind of a poet. Yet there is scarcely any portion of the Iliad where

both historical and internal evidence are more clearly in favour of a connection

from the remotest period, with the remainder of the work. The composition

of the Catalogue, whensoever it may have taken place, necessarily presumes

its author's acquaintance with a previously existing Iliad. It were impossible

otherwise to account for the harmony observable in the recurrence of so vast

a number of proper names, most of them historically unimportant, and not a

few altogether fictitious: or of so many geographical and genealogical details

as are condensed in these few hundred lines, and incidentally scattered over

the thousands which follow: equally inexplicable were the pointed allusions

occurring in this episode to events narrated in the previous and subsequent

text, several of which could hardly be of traditional notoriety, but through the

medium of the Iliad."—Mure, "Language and Literature of Greece," vol. i. p.

263.

66 The Iliad of Homer

NEPTUNE.

BOOK II. 67

With these Arcesilaus and Clonius stand,

Equal in arms, and equal in command.

These head the troops that rocky Aulis yields,

And Eteon's hills, and Hyrie's watery fields,

And Schoenos, Scholos, Graea near the main,

And Mycalessia's ample piny plain;

Those who in Peteon or Ilesion dwell,

Or Harma where Apollo's prophet fell;

Heleon and Hyle, which the springs o'erflow;

And Medeon lofty, and Ocalea low;

Or in the meads of Haliartus stray,

Or Thespia sacred to the god of day:

Onchestus, Neptune's celebrated groves;

Copae, and Thisbe, famed for silver doves; [041]

For flocks Erythrae, Glissa for the vine;

Platea green, and Nysa the divine;

And they whom Thebe's well-built walls inclose,

Where Myde, Eutresis, Corone, rose;

And Arne rich, with purple harvests crown'd;

And Anthedon, Boeotia's utmost bound.

Full fifty ships they send, and each conveys

Twice sixty warriors through the foaming seas.102

102 —Twice Sixty: "Thucydides observes that the Boeotian vessels, which

carried one hundred and twenty men each, were probably meant to be the

largest in the fleet, and those of Philoctetes, carrying fifty each, the smallest.

The average would be eighty-five, and Thucydides supposes the troops to have

rowed and navigated themselves; and that very few, besides the chiefs, went

as mere passengers or landsmen. In short, we have in the Homeric descriptions

the complete picture of an Indian or African war canoe, many of which are

considerably larger than the largest scale assigned to those of the Greeks. If

the total number of the Greek ships be taken at twelve hundred, according to

Thucydides, although in point of fact there are only eleven hundred and eightysix

in the Catalogue, the amount of the army, upon the foregoing average, will

be about a hundred and two thousand men. The historian considers this a small

force as representing all Greece. Bryant, comparing it with the allied army at

Platae, thinks it so large as to prove the entire falsehood of the whole story;

68 The Iliad of Homer

To these succeed Aspledon's martial train,

Who plough the spacious Orchomenian plain.

Two valiant brothers rule the undaunted throng,

Ialmen and Ascalaphus the strong:

Sons of Astyoche, the heavenly fair,

Whose virgin charms subdued the god of war:

(In Actor's court as she retired to rest,

The strength of Mars the blushing maid compress'd)

Their troops in thirty sable vessels sweep,

With equal oars, the hoarse-resounding deep.

The Phocians next in forty barks repair;

Epistrophus and Schedius head the war:

From those rich regions where Cephisus leads

His silver current through the flowery meads;

From Panopea, Chrysa the divine,

Where Anemoria's stately turrets shine,

Where Pytho, Daulis, Cyparissus stood,

And fair Lilaea views the rising flood.

These, ranged in order on the floating tide,

Close, on the left, the bold Boeotians' side.

Fierce Ajax led the Locrian squadrons on,

Ajax the less, Oileus' valiant son;

Skill'd to direct the flying dart aright;

Swift in pursuit, and active in the fight.

Him, as their chief, the chosen troops attend,

Which Bessa, Thronus, and rich Cynos send;

Opus, Calliarus, and Scarphe's bands;

And those who dwell where pleasing Augia stands,

And where Boagrius floats the lowly lands,

Or in fair Tarphe's sylvan seats reside:

In forty vessels cut the yielding tide.

BOOK II. 69

Euboea next her martial sons prepares,

And sends the brave Abantes to the wars:

Breathing revenge, in arms they take their way

From Chalcis' walls, and strong Eretria;

The Isteian fields for generous vines renown'd,

The fair Caristos, and the Styrian ground;

Where Dios from her towers o'erlooks the plain,

And high Cerinthus views the neighbouring main.

Down their broad shoulders falls a length of hair;

Their hands dismiss not the long lance in air;

But with protended spears in fighting fields

Pierce the tough corslets and the brazen shields.

Twice twenty ships transport the warlike bands,

Which bold Elphenor, fierce in arms, commands.

Full fifty more from Athens stem the main,

Led by Menestheus through the liquid plain.

(Athens the fair, where great Erectheus sway'd,

That owed his nurture to the blue-eyed maid,

But from the teeming furrow took his birth,

The mighty offspring of the foodful earth.

Him Pallas placed amidst her wealthy fane,

Adored with sacrifice and oxen slain;

Where, as the years revolve, her altars blaze,

And all the tribes resound the goddess' praise.)

No chief like thee, Menestheus! Greece could yield,

To marshal armies in the dusty field,

The extended wings of battle to display,

Or close the embodied host in firm array.

Nestor alone, improved by length of days,

For martial conduct bore an equal praise.

and his reasonings and calculations are, for their curiosity, well worth a careful

perusal."—Coleridge, p. 211, sq.

70 The Iliad of Homer

With these appear the Salaminian bands,

Whom the gigantic Telamon commands;

In twelve black ships to Troy they steer their course,

And with the great Athenians join their force.

Next move to war the generous Argive train,

From high Troezene, and Maseta's plain,

And fair Ægina circled by the main:

Whom strong Tyrinthe's lofty walls surround,

And Epidaure with viny harvests crown'd:

And where fair Asinen and Hermoin show

Their cliffs above, and ample bay below.

These by the brave Euryalus were led,

Great Sthenelus, and greater Diomed;

But chief Tydides bore the sovereign sway:

In fourscore barks they plough the watery way.

The proud Mycene arms her martial powers,

Cleone, Corinth, with imperial towers,103

[043]

Fair Araethyrea, Ornia's fruitful plain,

And Ægion, and Adrastus' ancient reign;

And those who dwell along the sandy shore,

And where Pellene yields her fleecy store,

Where Helice and Hyperesia lie,

And Gonoessa's spires salute the sky.

Great Agamemnon rules the numerous band,

A hundred vessels in long order stand,

And crowded nations wait his dread command.

High on the deck the king of men appears,

And his refulgent arms in triumph wears;

Proud of his host, unrivall'd in his reign,

103 The mention of Corinth is an anachronism, as that city was called Ephyre

before its capture by the Dorians. But Velleius, vol. i. p. 3, well observes, that

the poet would naturally speak of various towns and cities by the names by

which they were known in his own time.

BOOK II. 71

In silent pomp he moves along the main.

His brother follows, and to vengeance warms

The hardy Spartans, exercised in arms:

Phares and Brysia's valiant troops, and those

Whom Lacedaemon's lofty hills inclose;

Or Messe's towers for silver doves renown'd,

Amyclae, Laas, Augia's happy ground,

And those whom OEtylos' low walls contain,

And Helos, on the margin of the main:

These, o'er the bending ocean, Helen's cause,

In sixty ships with Menelaus draws:

Eager and loud from man to man he flies,

Revenge and fury flaming in his eyes;

While vainly fond, in fancy oft he hears

The fair one's grief, and sees her falling tears.

In ninety sail, from Pylos' sandy coast,

Nestor the sage conducts his chosen host:

From Amphigenia's ever-fruitful land,

Where Æpy high, and little Pteleon stand;

Where beauteous Arene her structures shows,

And Thryon's walls Alpheus' streams inclose:

And Dorion, famed for Thamyris' disgrace,

Superior once of all the tuneful race,

Till, vain of mortals' empty praise, he strove

To match the seed of cloud-compelling Jove!

Too daring bard! whose unsuccessful pride

The immortal Muses in their art defied.

The avenging Muses of the light of day

Deprived his eyes, and snatch'd his voice away;

No more his heavenly voice was heard to sing,

His hand no more awaked the silver string.

72 The Iliad of Homer

Where under high Cyllene, crown'd with wood,

The shaded tomb of old Æpytus stood;

From Ripe, Stratie, Tegea's bordering towns,

The Phenean fields, and Orchomenian downs,

Where the fat herds in plenteous pasture rove;

And Stymphelus with her surrounding grove;

[044] Parrhasia, on her snowy cliffs reclined,

And high Enispe shook by wintry wind,

And fair Mantinea's ever-pleasing site;

In sixty sail the Arcadian bands unite.

Bold Agapenor, glorious at their head,

(Ancaeus' son) the mighty squadron led.

Their ships, supplied by Agamemnon's care,

Through roaring seas the wondering warriors bear;

The first to battle on the appointed plain,

But new to all the dangers of the main.

Those, where fair Elis and Buprasium join;

Whom Hyrmin, here, and Myrsinus confine,

And bounded there, where o'er the valleys rose

The Olenian rock; and where Alisium flows;

Beneath four chiefs (a numerous army) came:

The strength and glory of the Epean name.

In separate squadrons these their train divide,

Each leads ten vessels through the yielding tide.

One was Amphimachus, and Thalpius one;

(Eurytus' this, and that Teatus' son;)

Diores sprung from Amarynceus' line;

And great Polyxenus, of force divine.

BOOK II. 73

But those who view fair Elis o'er the seas

From the blest islands of the Echinades,

In forty vessels under Meges move,

Begot by Phyleus, the beloved of Jove:

To strong Dulichium from his sire he fled,

And thence to Troy his hardy warriors led.

Ulysses follow'd through the watery road,

A chief, in wisdom equal to a god.

With those whom Cephalenia's line inclosed,

Or till their fields along the coast opposed;

Or where fair Ithaca o'erlooks the floods,

Where high Neritos shakes his waving woods,

Where Ægilipa's rugged sides are seen,

Crocylia rocky, and Zacynthus green.

These in twelve galleys with vermilion prores,

Beneath his conduct sought the Phrygian shores.

Thoas came next, Andraemon's valiant son,

From Pleuron's walls, and chalky Calydon,

And rough Pylene, and the Olenian steep,

And Chalcis, beaten by the rolling deep.

He led the warriors from the Ætolian shore,

For now the sons of OEneus were no more!

The glories of the mighty race were fled!

OEneus himself, and Meleager dead!

To Thoas' care now trust the martial train,

His forty vessels follow through the main.

74 The Iliad of Homer

Next, eighty barks the Cretan king commands,

Of Gnossus, Lyctus, and Gortyna's bands;

And those who dwell where Rhytion's domes arise, [045]

Or white Lycastus glitters to the skies,

Or where by Phaestus silver Jardan runs;

Crete's hundred cities pour forth all her sons.

These march'd, Idomeneus, beneath thy care,

And Merion, dreadful as the god of war.

Tlepolemus, the sun of Hercules,

Led nine swift vessels through the foamy seas,

From Rhodes, with everlasting sunshine bright,

Jalyssus, Lindus, and Camirus white.

His captive mother fierce Alcides bore

From Ephyr's walls and Selle's winding shore,

Where mighty towns in ruins spread the plain,

And saw their blooming warriors early slain.

The hero, when to manly years he grew,

Alcides' uncle, old Licymnius, slew;

For this, constrain'd to quit his native place,

And shun the vengeance of the Herculean race,

A fleet he built, and with a numerous train

Of willing exiles wander'd o'er the main;

Where, many seas and many sufferings past,

On happy Rhodes the chief arrived at last:

There in three tribes divides his native band,

And rules them peaceful in a foreign land;

Increased and prosper'd in their new abodes

By mighty Jove, the sire of men and gods;

With joy they saw the growing empire rise,

And showers of wealth descending from the skies.

BOOK II. 75

Three ships with Nireus sought the Trojan shore,

Nireus, whom Aglae to Charopus bore,

Nireus, in faultless shape and blooming grace,

The loveliest youth of all the Grecian race;104

Pelides only match'd his early charms;

But few his troops, and small his strength in arms.

Next thirty galleys cleave the liquid plain,

Of those Calydnae's sea-girt isles contain;

With them the youth of Nisyrus repair,

Casus the strong, and Crapathus the fair;

Cos, where Eurypylus possess'd the sway,

Till great Alcides made the realms obey:

These Antiphus and bold Phidippus bring,

Sprung from the god by Thessalus the king.

Now, Muse, recount Pelasgic Argos' powers,

From Alos, Alope, and Trechin's towers:

From Phthia's spacious vales; and Hella, bless'd

With female beauty far beyond the rest.

Full fifty ships beneath Achilles' care,

The Achaians, Myrmidons, Hellenians bear;

Thessalians all, though various in their name; [046]

The same their nation, and their chief the same.

But now inglorious, stretch'd along the shore,

They hear the brazen voice of war no more;

No more the foe they face in dire array:

Close in his fleet the angry leader lay;

Since fair Briseis from his arms was torn,

The noblest spoil from sack'd Lyrnessus borne,

104

"Adam, the goodliest man of men since born,

His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.'

—"Paradise Lost," iv. 323.

76 The Iliad of Homer

Then, when the chief the Theban walls o'erthrew,

And the bold sons of great Evenus slew.

There mourn'd Achilles, plunged in depth of care,

But soon to rise in slaughter, blood, and war.

To these the youth of Phylace succeed,

Itona, famous for her fleecy breed,

And grassy Pteleon deck'd with cheerful greens,

The bowers of Ceres, and the sylvan scenes.

Sweet Pyrrhasus, with blooming flowerets crown'd,

And Antron's watery dens, and cavern'd ground.

These own'd, as chief, Protesilas the brave,

Who now lay silent in the gloomy grave:

The first who boldly touch'd the Trojan shore,

And dyed a Phrygian lance with Grecian gore;

There lies, far distant from his native plain;

Unfinish'd his proud palaces remain,

And his sad consort beats her breast in vain.

His troops in forty ships Podarces led,

Iphiclus' son, and brother to the dead;

Nor he unworthy to command the host;

Yet still they mourn'd their ancient leader lost.

The men who Glaphyra's fair soil partake,

Where hills incircle Boebe's lowly lake,

Where Phaere hears the neighbouring waters fall,

Or proud Iolcus lifts her airy wall,

In ten black ships embark'd for Ilion's shore,

With bold Eumelus, whom Alceste bore:

All Pelias' race Alceste far outshined,

The grace and glory of the beauteous kind,

BOOK II. 77

The troops Methone or Thaumacia yields,

Olizon's rocks, or Meliboea's fields,

With Philoctetes sail'd whose matchless art

From the tough bow directs the feather'd dart.

Seven were his ships; each vessel fifty row,

Skill'd in his science of the dart and bow.

But he lay raging on the Lemnian ground,

A poisonous hydra gave the burning wound;

There groan'd the chief in agonizing pain,

Whom Greece at length shall wish, nor wish in vain.

His forces Medon led from Lemnos' shore,

Oileus' son, whom beauteous Rhena bore.

The OEchalian race, in those high towers contain'd

Where once Eurytus in proud triumph reign'd, [047]

Or where her humbler turrets Tricca rears,

Or where Ithome, rough with rocks, appears,

In thirty sail the sparkling waves divide,

Which Podalirius and Machaon guide.

To these his skill their parent-god imparts,

Divine professors of the healing arts.

The bold Ormenian and Asterian bands

In forty barks Eurypylus commands.

Where Titan hides his hoary head in snow,

And where Hyperia's silver fountains flow.

Thy troops, Argissa, Polypoetes leads,

And Eleon, shelter'd by Olympus' shades,

Gyrtone's warriors; and where Orthe lies,

And Oloosson's chalky cliffs arise.

Sprung from Pirithous of immortal race,

The fruit of fair Hippodame's embrace,

(That day, when hurl'd from Pelion's cloudy head,

To distant dens the shaggy Centaurs fled)

78 The Iliad of Homer

With Polypoetes join'd in equal sway

Leonteus leads, and forty ships obey.

In twenty sail the bold Perrhaebians came

From Cyphus, Guneus was their leader's name.

With these the Enians join'd, and those who freeze

Where cold Dodona lifts her holy trees;

Or where the pleasing Titaresius glides,

And into Peneus rolls his easy tides;

Yet o'er the silvery surface pure they flow,

The sacred stream unmix'd with streams below,

Sacred and awful! from the dark abodes

Styx pours them forth, the dreadful oath of gods!

Last, under Prothous the Magnesians stood,

(Prothous the swift, of old Tenthredon's blood;)

Who dwell where Pelion, crown'd with piny boughs,

Obscures the glade, and nods his shaggy brows;

Or where through flowery Tempe Peneus stray'd:

(The region stretch'd beneath his mighty shade:)

In forty sable barks they stemm'd the main;

Such were the chiefs, and such the Grecian train.

Say next, O Muse! of all Achaia breeds,

Who bravest fought, or rein'd the noblest steeds?

Eumelus' mares were foremost in the chase,

As eagles fleet, and of Pheretian race;

Bred where Pieria's fruitful fountains flow,

And train'd by him who bears the silver bow.

Fierce in the fight their nostrils breathed a flame,

Their height, their colour, and their age the same;

O'er fields of death they whirl the rapid car,

And break the ranks, and thunder through the war.

Ajax in arms the first renown acquired,

[048] While stern Achilles in his wrath retired:

BOOK II. 79

(His was the strength that mortal might exceeds,

And his the unrivall'd race of heavenly steeds:)

But Thetis' son now shines in arms no more;

His troops, neglected on the sandy shore.

In empty air their sportive javelins throw,

Or whirl the disk, or bend an idle bow:

Unstain'd with blood his cover'd chariots stand;

The immortal coursers graze along the strand;

But the brave chiefs the inglorious life deplored,

And, wandering o'er the camp, required their lord.

Now, like a deluge, covering all around,

The shining armies sweep along the ground;

Swift as a flood of fire, when storms arise,

Floats the wild field, and blazes to the skies.

Earth groan'd beneath them; as when angry Jove

Hurls down the forky lightning from above,

On Arime when he the thunder throws,

And fires Typhoeus with redoubled blows,

Where Typhon, press'd beneath the burning load,

Still feels the fury of the avenging god.

But various Iris, Jove's commands to bear,

Speeds on the wings of winds through liquid air;

In Priam's porch the Trojan chiefs she found,

The old consulting, and the youths around.

Polites' shape, the monarch's son, she chose,

Who from Æsetes' tomb observed the foes,105

High on the mound; from whence in prospect lay

The fields, the tents, the navy, and the bay.

In this dissembled form, she hastes to bring

105 —Æsetes' tomb. Monuments were often built on the sea-coast, and of a

considerable height, so as to serve as watch-towers or land marks. See my

notes to my prose translations of the "Odyssey," ii. p. 21, or on Eur. "Alcest."

vol. i. p. 240.

80 The Iliad of Homer

The unwelcome message to the Phrygian king.

"Cease to consult, the time for action calls;

War, horrid war, approaches to your walls!

Assembled armies oft have I beheld;

But ne'er till now such numbers charged a field:

Thick as autumnal leaves or driving sand,

The moving squadrons blacken all the strand.

Thou, godlike Hector! all thy force employ,

Assemble all the united bands of Troy;

In just array let every leader call

The foreign troops: this day demands them all!"

The voice divine the mighty chief alarms;

The council breaks, the warriors rush to arms.

The gates unfolding pour forth all their train,

Nations on nations fill the dusky plain,

Men, steeds, and chariots, shake the trembling ground:

The tumult thickens, and the skies resound.

[049] Amidst the plain, in sight of Ilion, stands

A rising mount, the work of human hands;

(This for Myrinne's tomb the immortals know,

Though call'd Bateia in the world below;)

Beneath their chiefs in martial order here,

The auxiliar troops and Trojan hosts appear.

The godlike Hector, high above the rest,

Shakes his huge spear, and nods his plumy crest:

In throngs around his native bands repair,

And groves of lances glitter in the air.

BOOK II. 81

Divine Æneas brings the Dardan race,

Anchises' son, by Venus' stolen embrace,

Born in the shades of Ida's secret grove;

(A mortal mixing with the queen of love;)

Archilochus and Acamas divide

The warrior's toils, and combat by his side.

Who fair Zeleia's wealthy valleys till,106

Fast by the foot of Ida's sacred hill,

Or drink, Æsepus, of thy sable flood,

Were led by Pandarus, of royal blood;

To whom his art Apollo deign'd to show,

Graced with the presents of his shafts and bow.

From rich Apaesus and Adrestia's towers,

High Teree's summits, and Pityea's bowers;

From these the congregated troops obey

Young Amphius and Adrastus' equal sway;

Old Merops' sons; whom, skill'd in fates to come,

The sire forewarn'd, and prophesied their doom:

Fate urged them on! the sire forewarn'd in vain,

They rush'd to war, and perish'd on the plain.

From Practius' stream, Percote's pasture lands,

And Sestos and Abydos' neighbouring strands,

From great Arisba's walls and Selle's coast,

Asius Hyrtacides conducts his host:

High on his car he shakes the flowing reins,

His fiery coursers thunder o'er the plains.

106 —Zeleia, another name for Lycia. The inhabitants were greatly devoted to

the worship of Apollo. See Muller, "Dorians," vol. i. p. 248.

82 The Iliad of Homer

The fierce Pelasgi next, in war renown'd,

March from Larissa's ever-fertile ground:

In equal arms their brother leaders shine,

Hippothous bold, and Pyleus the divine.

Next Acamas and Pyrous lead their hosts,

In dread array, from Thracia's wintry coasts;

Round the bleak realms where Hellespontus roars,

And Boreas beats the hoarse-resounding shores.

With great Euphemus the Ciconians move,

Sprung from Troezenian Ceus, loved by Jove.

Pyraechmes the Paeonian troops attend,

Skill'd in the fight their crooked bows to bend;

[050] From Axius' ample bed he leads them on,

Axius, that laves the distant Amydon,

Axius, that swells with all his neighbouring rills,

And wide around the floating region fills.

The Paphlagonians Pylaemenes rules,

Where rich Henetia breeds her savage mules,

Where Erythinus' rising cliffs are seen,

Thy groves of box, Cytorus! ever green,

And where Ægialus and Cromna lie,

And lofty Sesamus invades the sky,

And where Parthenius, roll'd through banks of flowers,

Reflects her bordering palaces and bowers.

Here march'd in arms the Halizonian band,

Whom Odius and Epistrophus command,

From those far regions where the sun refines

The ripening silver in Alybean mines.

BOOK II. 83

There mighty Chromis led the Mysian train,

And augur Ennomus, inspired in vain;

For stern Achilles lopp'd his sacred head,

Roll'd down Scamander with the vulgar dead.

Phorcys and brave Ascanius here unite

The Ascanian Phrygians, eager for the fight.

Of those who round Maeonia's realms reside,

Or whom the vales in shades of Tmolus hide,

Mestles and Antiphus the charge partake,

Born on the banks of Gyges' silent lake.

There, from the fields where wild Maeander flows,

High Mycale, and Latmos' shady brows,

And proud Miletus, came the Carian throngs,

With mingled clamours and with barbarous tongues.107

Amphimachus and Naustes guide the train,

Naustes the bold, Amphimachus the vain,

Who, trick'd with gold, and glittering on his car,

Rode like a woman to the field of war.

Fool that he was! by fierce Achilles slain,

The river swept him to the briny main:

There whelm'd with waves the gaudy warrior lies

The valiant victor seized the golden prize.

The forces last in fair array succeed,

Which blameless Glaucus and Sarpedon lead

The warlike bands that distant Lycia yields,

Where gulfy Xanthus foams along the fields.

107 —Barbarous tongues. "Various as were the dialects of the Greeks—and

these differences existed not only between the several tribes, but even between

neighbouring cities—they yet acknowledged in their language that they formed

but one nation were but branches of the same family. Homer has 'men of other

tongues:' and yet Homer had no general name for the Greek nation."—Heeren,

"Ancient Greece," Section vii. p. 107, sq.

[051]

BOOK III.

ARGUMENT.

THE DUEL OF MENELAUS AND PARIS.

The armies being ready to engage, a single combat is agreed

upon between Menelaus and Paris (by the intervention of Hector)

for the determination of the war. Iris is sent to call Helen to

behold the fight. She leads her to the walls of Troy, where Priam

sat with his counsellers observing the Grecian leaders on the plain

below, to whom Helen gives an account of the chief of them.

The kings on either part take the solemn oath for the conditions

of the combat. The duel ensues; wherein Paris being overcome,

he is snatched away in a cloud by Venus, and transported to

his apartment. She then calls Helen from the walls, and brings

the lovers together. Agamemnon, on the part of the Grecians,

demands the restoration of Helen, and the performance of the

articles.

The three-and-twentieth day still continues throughout this

book. The scene is sometimes in the fields before Troy, and

sometimes in Troy itself.

Thus by their leaders' care each martial band

Moves into ranks, and stretches o'er the land.

With shouts the Trojans, rushing from afar,

Proclaim their motions, and provoke the war

So when inclement winters vex the plain

With piercing frosts, or thick-descending rain,

To warmer seas the cranes embodied fly,108

108

86 The Iliad of Homer

With noise, and order, through the midway sky;

To pigmy nations wounds and death they bring,

And all the war descends upon the wing,

But silent, breathing rage, resolved and skill'd109

[052] By mutual aids to fix a doubtful field,

Swift march the Greeks: the rapid dust around

Darkening arises from the labour'd ground.

Thus from his flaggy wings when Notus sheds

A night of vapours round the mountain heads,

Swift-gliding mists the dusky fields invade,

To thieves more grateful than the midnight shade;

While scarce the swains their feeding flocks survey,

Lost and confused amidst the thicken'd day:

So wrapp'd in gathering dust, the Grecian train,

A moving cloud, swept on, and hid the plain.

Now front to front the hostile armies stand,

Eager of fight, and only wait command;

When, to the van, before the sons of fame

Whom Troy sent forth, the beauteous Paris came:

In form a god! the panther's speckled hide

Flow'd o'er his armour with an easy pride:

The cranes.

"Marking the tracts of air, the clamorous cranes

Wheel their due flight in varied ranks descried:

And each with outstretch'd neck his rank maintains,

In marshall'd order through th' ethereal void."

Lorenzo de Medici, in Roscoe's Life, Appendix.

See Cary's Dante: "Hell," canto v.

109

Silent, breathing rage.

"Thus they,

Breathing united force with fixed thought,

Moved on in silence."

"Paradise Lost," book i. 559.

BOOK III. 87

His bended bow across his shoulders flung,

His sword beside him negligently hung;

Two pointed spears he shook with gallant grace,

And dared the bravest of the Grecian race.

As thus, with glorious air and proud disdain,

He boldly stalk'd, the foremost on the plain,

Him Menelaus, loved of Mars, espies,

With heart elated, and with joyful eyes:

So joys a lion, if the branching deer,

Or mountain goat, his bulky prize, appear;

Eager he seizes and devours the slain,

Press'd by bold youths and baying dogs in vain.

Thus fond of vengeance, with a furious bound,

In clanging arms he leaps upon the ground

From his high chariot: him, approaching near,

The beauteous champion views with marks of fear,

Smit with a conscious sense, retires behind,

And shuns the fate he well deserved to find.

As when some shepherd, from the rustling trees110

Shot forth to view, a scaly serpent sees,

Trembling and pale, he starts with wild affright

And all confused precipitates his flight:

So from the king the shining warrior flies,

And plunged amid the thickest Trojans lies.

110

"As when some peasant in a bushy brake

Has with unwary footing press'd a snake;

He starts aside, astonish'd, when he spies

His rising crest, blue neck, and rolling eyes"

Dryden's Virgil, ii. 510.

88 The Iliad of Homer

As godlike Hector sees the prince retreat,

He thus upbraids him with a generous heat:

"Unhappy Paris! but to women brave!111

[053] So fairly form'd, and only to deceive!

Oh, hadst thou died when first thou saw'st the light,

Or died at least before thy nuptial rite!

A better fate than vainly thus to boast,

And fly, the scandal of thy Trojan host.

Gods! how the scornful Greeks exult to see

Their fears of danger undeceived in thee!

Thy figure promised with a martial air,

But ill thy soul supplies a form so fair.

In former days, in all thy gallant pride,

When thy tall ships triumphant stemm'd the tide,

When Greece beheld thy painted canvas flow,

And crowds stood wondering at the passing show,

Say, was it thus, with such a baffled mien,

You met the approaches of the Spartan queen,

Thus from her realm convey'd the beauteous prize,

And both her warlike lords outshined in Helen's eyes?

This deed, thy foes' delight, thy own disgrace,

Thy father's grief, and ruin of thy race;

This deed recalls thee to the proffer'd fight;

Or hast thou injured whom thou dar'st not right?

Soon to thy cost the field would make thee know

Thou keep'st the consort of a braver foe.

Thy graceful form instilling soft desire,

Thy curling tresses, and thy silver lyre,

Beauty and youth; in vain to these you trust,

When youth and beauty shall be laid in dust:

Troy yet may wake, and one avenging blow

111 Dysparis, i.e. unlucky, ill fated, Paris. This alludes to the evils which

resulted from his having been brought up, despite the omens which attended

his birth.

BOOK III. 89

Crush the dire author of his country's woe."

His silence here, with blushes, Paris breaks:

"'Tis just, my brother, what your anger speaks:

But who like thee can boast a soul sedate,

So firmly proof to all the shocks of fate?

Thy force, like steel, a temper'd hardness shows,

Still edged to wound, and still untired with blows,

Like steel, uplifted by some strenuous swain,

With falling woods to strew the wasted plain.

Thy gifts I praise; nor thou despise the charms

With which a lover golden Venus arms;

Soft moving speech, and pleasing outward show,

No wish can gain them, but the gods bestow.

Yet, would'st thou have the proffer'd combat stand,

The Greeks and Trojans seat on either hand;

Then let a midway space our hosts divide,

And, on that stage of war, the cause be tried:

By Paris there the Spartan king be fought,

For beauteous Helen and the wealth she brought;

And who his rival can in arms subdue,

His be the fair, and his the treasure too.

Thus with a lasting league your toils may cease,

And Troy possess her fertile fields in peace; [054]

Thus may the Greeks review their native shore,

Much famed for generous steeds, for beauty more."

He said. The challenge Hector heard with joy,

Then with his spear restrain'd the youth of Troy,

Held by the midst, athwart; and near the foe

Advanced with steps majestically slow:

While round his dauntless head the Grecians pour

Their stones and arrows in a mingled shower.

90 The Iliad of Homer

Then thus the monarch, great Atrides, cried:

"Forbear, ye warriors! lay the darts aside:

A parley Hector asks, a message bears;

We know him by the various plume he wears."

Awed by his high command the Greeks attend,

The tumult silence, and the fight suspend.

While from the centre Hector rolls his eyes

On either host, and thus to both applies:

"Hear, all ye Trojan, all ye Grecian bands,

What Paris, author of the war, demands.

Your shining swords within the sheath restrain,

And pitch your lances in the yielding plain.

Here in the midst, in either army's sight,

He dares the Spartan king to single fight;

And wills that Helen and the ravish'd spoil,

That caused the contest, shall reward the toil.

Let these the brave triumphant victor grace,

And different nations part in leagues of peace."

He spoke: in still suspense on either side

Each army stood: the Spartan chief replied:

"Me too, ye warriors, hear, whose fatal right

A world engages in the toils of fight.

To me the labour of the field resign;

Me Paris injured; all the war be mine.

Fall he that must, beneath his rival's arms;

And live the rest, secure of future harms.

Two lambs, devoted by your country's rite,

To earth a sable, to the sun a white,

Prepare, ye Trojans! while a third we bring

Select to Jove, the inviolable king.

Let reverend Priam in the truce engage,

And add the sanction of considerate age;

BOOK III. 91

His sons are faithless, headlong in debate,

And youth itself an empty wavering state;

Cool age advances, venerably wise,

Turns on all hands its deep-discerning eyes;

Sees what befell, and what may yet befall,

Concludes from both, and best provides for all.

The nations hear with rising hopes possess'd,

And peaceful prospects dawn in every breast.

Within the lines they drew their steeds around,

And from their chariots issued on the ground; [055]

Next, all unbuckling the rich mail they wore,

Laid their bright arms along the sable shore.

On either side the meeting hosts are seen

With lances fix'd, and close the space between.

Two heralds now, despatch'd to Troy, invite

The Phrygian monarch to the peaceful rite.

Talthybius hastens to the fleet, to bring

The lamb for Jove, the inviolable king.

Meantime to beauteous Helen, from the skies

The various goddess of the rainbow flies:

(Like fair Laodice in form and face,

The loveliest nymph of Priam's royal race:)

Her in the palace, at her loom she found;

The golden web her own sad story crown'd,

The Trojan wars she weaved (herself the prize)

And the dire triumphs of her fatal eyes.

To whom the goddess of the painted bow:

"Approach, and view the wondrous scene below!112

112 The following scene, in which Homer has contrived to introduce so brilliant

a sketch of the Grecian warriors, has been imitated by Euripides, who in his

"Phoenissae" represents Antigone surveying the opposing champions from a

high tower, while the paedagogus describes their insignia and details their

histories.

92 The Iliad of Homer

Each hardy Greek, and valiant Trojan knight,

So dreadful late, and furious for the fight,

Now rest their spears, or lean upon their shields;

Ceased is the war, and silent all the fields.

Paris alone and Sparta's king advance,

In single fight to toss the beamy lance;

Each met in arms, the fate of combat tries,

Thy love the motive, and thy charms the prize."

This said, the many-coloured maid inspires

Her husband's love, and wakes her former fires;

Her country, parents, all that once were dear,

Rush to her thought, and force a tender tear,

O'er her fair face a snowy veil she threw,

And, softly sighing, from the loom withdrew.

Her handmaids, Clymene and Æthra, wait

Her silent footsteps to the Scaean gate.

There sat the seniors of the Trojan race:

(Old Priam's chiefs, and most in Priam's grace,)

The king the first; Thymoetes at his side;

Lampus and Clytius, long in council tried;

Panthus, and Hicetaon, once the strong;

And next, the wisest of the reverend throng,

Antenor grave, and sage Ucalegon,

Lean'd on the walls and bask'd before the sun:

Chiefs, who no more in bloody fights engage,

But wise through time, and narrative with age,

In summer days, like grasshoppers rejoice,

[056] A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.

BOOK III. 93

These, when the Spartan queen approach'd the tower,

In secret own'd resistless beauty's power:

They cried, "No wonder such celestial charms113

For nine long years have set the world in arms;

What winning graces! what majestic mien!

She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen!

Yet hence, O Heaven, convey that fatal face,

And from destruction save the Trojan race."

The good old Priam welcomed her, and cried,

"Approach, my child, and grace thy father's side.

See on the plain thy Grecian spouse appears,

The friends and kindred of thy former years.

No crime of thine our present sufferings draws,

Not thou, but Heaven's disposing will, the cause

The gods these armies and this force employ,

The hostile gods conspire the fate of Troy.

But lift thy eyes, and say, what Greek is he

(Far as from hence these aged orbs can see)

Around whose brow such martial graces shine,

So tall, so awful, and almost divine!

Though some of larger stature tread the green,

None match his grandeur and exalted mien:

He seems a monarch, and his country's pride."

Thus ceased the king, and thus the fair replied:

113 —No wonder, &c. Zeuxis, the celebrated artist, is said to have appended

these lines to his picture of Helen, as a motto. Valer Max. iii. 7.

94 The Iliad of Homer

"Before thy presence, father, I appear,

With conscious shame and reverential fear.

Ah! had I died, ere to these walk I fled,

False to my country, and my nuptial bed;

My brothers, friends, and daughter left behind,

False to them all, to Paris only kind!

For this I mourn, till grief or dire disease

Shall waste the form whose fault it was to please!

The king of kings, Atrides, you survey,

Great in the war, and great in arts of sway:

My brother once, before my days of shame!

And oh! that still he bore a brother's name!"

With wonder Priam view'd the godlike man,

Extoll'd the happy prince, and thus began:

"O bless'd Atrides! born to prosperous fate,

Successful monarch of a mighty state!

How vast thy empire! Of your matchless train

What numbers lost, what numbers yet remain!

In Phrygia once were gallant armies known,

In ancient time, when Otreus fill'd the throne,

When godlike Mygdon led their troops of horse,

And I, to join them, raised the Trojan force:

Against the manlike Amazons we stood,114

[057]

114 The early epic was largely occupied with the exploits and sufferings of

women, or heroines, the wives and daughters of the Grecian heroes. A nation of

courageous, hardy, indefatigable women, dwelling apart from men, permitting

only a short temporary intercourse, for the purpose of renovating their numbers,

burning out their right breast with a view of enabling themselves to draw the

bow freely; this was at once a general type, stimulating to the fancy of the

poet, and a theme eminently popular with his hearers. We find these warlike

females constantly reappearing in the ancient poems, and universally accepted

as past realities in the Iliad. When Priam wishes to illustrate emphatically the

most numerous host in which he ever found himself included, he tells us that

it was assembled in Phrygia, on the banks of the Sangarius, for the purpose of

resisting the formidable Amazons. When Bellerophon is to be employed in a

BOOK III. 95

And Sangar's stream ran purple with their blood.

But far inferior those, in martial grace,

And strength of numbers, to this Grecian race."

This said, once more he view'd the warrior train;

"What's he, whose arms lie scatter'd on the plain?

Broad is his breast, his shoulders larger spread,

Though great Atrides overtops his head.

Nor yet appear his care and conduct small;

From rank to rank he moves, and orders all.

The stately ram thus measures o'er the ground,

And, master of the flock, surveys them round."

Then Helen thus: "Whom your discerning eyes

Have singled out, is Ithacus the wise;

A barren island boasts his glorious birth;

His fame for wisdom fills the spacious earth."

Antenor took the word, and thus began:115

"Myself, O king! have seen that wondrous man

When, trusting Jove and hospitable laws,

To Troy he came, to plead the Grecian cause;

(Great Menelaus urged the same request;)

My house was honour'd with each royal guest:

I knew their persons, and admired their parts,

Both brave in arms, and both approved in arts.

Erect, the Spartan most engaged our view;

Ulysses seated, greater reverence drew.

When Atreus' son harangued the listening train,

Just was his sense, and his expression plain,

His words succinct, yet full, without a fault;

deadly and perilous undertaking, by those who prudently wished to procure his

death, he is despatched against the Amazons.—Grote, vol. i p. 289.

115 —Antenor, like Æneas, had always been favourable to the restoration of

Helen. Liv 1. 2.

96 The Iliad of Homer

He spoke no more than just the thing he ought.

But when Ulysses rose, in thought profound,116

His modest eyes he fix'd upon the ground;

[058] As one unskill'd or dumb, he seem'd to stand,

Nor raised his head, nor stretch'd his sceptred hand;

But, when he speaks, what elocution flows!

Soft as the fleeces of descending snows,117

The copious accents fall, with easy art;

Melting they fall, and sink into the heart!

Wondering we hear, and fix'd in deep surprise,

Our ears refute the censure of our eyes."

The king then ask'd (as yet the camp he view'd)

"What chief is that, with giant strength endued,

Whose brawny shoulders, and whose swelling chest,

And lofty stature, far exceed the rest?

"Ajax the great, (the beauteous queen replied,)

Himself a host: the Grecian strength and pride.

See! bold Idomeneus superior towers

Amid yon circle of his Cretan powers,

116

"His lab'ring heart with sudden rapture seized

He paus'd, and on the ground in silence gazed.

Unskill'd and uninspired he seems to stand,

Nor lifts the eye, nor graceful moves the hand:

Then, while the chiefs in still attention hung,

Pours the full tide of eloquence along;

While from his lips the melting torrent flows,

Soft as the fleeces of descending snows.

Now stronger notes engage the listening crowd,

Louder the accents rise, and yet more loud,

Like thunders rolling from a distant cloud."

Merrick's "Tryphiodorus," 148, 99.

117 Duport, "Gnomol. Homer," p. 20, well observes that this comparison may

also be sarcastically applied to the frigid style of oratory. It, of course, here

merely denotes the ready fluency of Ulysses.

BOOK III. 97

Great as a god! I saw him once before,

With Menelaus on the Spartan shore.

The rest I know, and could in order name;

All valiant chiefs, and men of mighty fame.

Yet two are wanting of the numerous train,

Whom long my eyes have sought, but sought in vain:

Castor and Pollux, first in martial force,

One bold on foot, and one renown'd for horse.

My brothers these; the same our native shore,

One house contain'd us, as one mother bore.

Perhaps the chiefs, from warlike toils at ease,

For distant Troy refused to sail the seas;

Perhaps their swords some nobler quarrel draws,

Ashamed to combat in their sister's cause."

So spoke the fair, nor knew her brothers' doom;118

Wrapt in the cold embraces of the tomb;

Adorn'd with honours in their native shore,

Silent they slept, and heard of wars no more.

Meantime the heralds, through the crowded town.

Bring the rich wine and destined victims down.

Idaeus' arms the golden goblets press'd,119

Who thus the venerable king address'd:

"Arise, O father of the Trojan state!

The nations call, thy joyful people wait

To seal the truce, and end the dire debate.

Paris, thy son, and Sparta's king advance,

In measured lists to toss the weighty lance;

And who his rival shall in arms subdue,

118 —Her brothers' doom. They perished in combat with Lynceus and Idas,

whilst besieging Sparta. See Hygin. Poet Astr. 32, 22. Virgil and others,

however, make them share immortality by turns.

119 Idreus was the arm-bearer and charioteer of king Priam, slain during this

war. Cf. Æn, vi. 487.

98 The Iliad of Homer

[059] His be the dame, and his the treasure too.

Thus with a lasting league our toils may cease,

And Troy possess her fertile fields in peace:

So shall the Greeks review their native shore,

Much famed for generous steeds, for beauty more."

With grief he heard, and bade the chiefs prepare

To join his milk-white coursers to the car;

He mounts the seat, Antenor at his side;

The gentle steeds through Scaea's gates they guide:120

Next from the car descending on the plain,

Amid the Grecian host and Trojan train,

Slow they proceed: the sage Ulysses then

Arose, and with him rose the king of men.

On either side a sacred herald stands,

The wine they mix, and on each monarch's hands

Pour the full urn; then draws the Grecian lord

His cutlass sheathed beside his ponderous sword;

From the sign'd victims crops the curling hair;121

The heralds part it, and the princes share;

Then loudly thus before the attentive bands

He calls the gods, and spreads his lifted hands:

"O first and greatest power! whom all obey,

Who high on Ida's holy mountain sway,

Eternal Jove! and you bright orb that roll

From east to west, and view from pole to pole!

Thou mother Earth! and all ye living floods!

Infernal furies, and Tartarean gods,

Who rule the dead, and horrid woes prepare

For perjured kings, and all who falsely swear!

120 —Scaea's gates, rather Scaean gates, i.e. the left-hand gates.

121 This was customary in all sacrifices. Hence we find Iras descending to cut

off the hair of Dido, before which she could not expire.

BOOK III. 99

Hear, and be witness. If, by Paris slain,

Great Menelaus press the fatal plain;

The dame and treasures let the Trojan keep,

And Greece returning plough the watery deep.

If by my brother's lance the Trojan bleed,

Be his the wealth and beauteous dame decreed:

The appointed fine let Ilion justly pay,

And every age record the signal day.

This if the Phrygians shall refuse to yield,

Arms must revenge, and Mars decide the field."

With that the chief the tender victims slew,

And in the dust their bleeding bodies threw;

The vital spirit issued at the wound,

And left the members quivering on the ground.

From the same urn they drink the mingled wine,

And add libations to the powers divine.

While thus their prayers united mount the sky,

"Hear, mighty Jove! and hear, ye gods on high!

And may their blood, who first the league confound, [060]

Shed like this wine, disdain the thirsty ground;

May all their consorts serve promiscuous lust,

And all their lust be scatter'd as the dust!"

Thus either host their imprecations join'd,

Which Jove refused, and mingled with the wind.

The rites now finish'd, reverend Priam rose,

And thus express'd a heart o'ercharged with woes:

"Ye Greeks and Trojans, let the chiefs engage,

But spare the weakness of my feeble age:

In yonder walls that object let me shun,

Nor view the danger of so dear a son.

Whose arms shall conquer and what prince shall fall,

Heaven only knows; for heaven disposes all."

100 The Iliad of Homer

This said, the hoary king no longer stay'd,

But on his car the slaughter'd victims laid:

Then seized the reins his gentle steeds to guide,

And drove to Troy, Antenor at his side.

Bold Hector and Ulysses now dispose

The lists of combat, and the ground inclose:

Next to decide, by sacred lots prepare,

Who first shall launch his pointed spear in air.

The people pray with elevated hands,

And words like these are heard through all the bands:

"Immortal Jove, high Heaven's superior lord,

On lofty Ida's holy mount adored!

Whoe'er involved us in this dire debate,

O give that author of the war to fate

And shades eternal! let division cease,

And joyful nations join in leagues of peace."

With eyes averted Hector hastes to turn

The lots of fight and shakes the brazen urn.

Then, Paris, thine leap'd forth; by fatal chance

Ordain'd the first to whirl the weighty lance.

Both armies sat the combat to survey.

Beside each chief his azure armour lay,

And round the lists the generous coursers neigh.

The beauteous warrior now arrays for fight,

In gilded arms magnificently bright:

The purple cuishes clasp his thighs around,

With flowers adorn'd, with silver buckles bound:

Lycaon's corslet his fair body dress'd,

Braced in and fitted to his softer breast;

A radiant baldric, o'er his shoulder tied,

Sustain'd the sword that glitter'd at his side:

His youthful face a polish'd helm o'erspread;

BOOK III. 101

The waving horse-hair nodded on his head:

His figured shield, a shining orb, he takes,

And in his hand a pointed javelin shakes.

With equal speed and fired by equal charms,

The Spartan hero sheathes his limbs in arms.

[061]

Now round the lists the admiring armies stand,

With javelins fix'd, the Greek and Trojan band.

Amidst the dreadful vale, the chiefs advance,

All pale with rage, and shake the threatening lance.

The Trojan first his shining javelin threw;

Full on Atrides' ringing shield it flew,

Nor pierced the brazen orb, but with a bound122

Leap'd from the buckler, blunted, on the ground.

Atrides then his massy lance prepares,

In act to throw, but first prefers his prayers:

"Give me, great Jove! to punish lawless lust,

And lay the Trojan gasping in the dust:

Destroy the aggressor, aid my righteous cause,

Avenge the breach of hospitable laws!

Let this example future times reclaim,

And guard from wrong fair friendship's holy name."

Be said, and poised in air the javelin sent,

Through Paris' shield the forceful weapon went,

His corslet pierces, and his garment rends,

And glancing downward, near his flank descends.

The wary Trojan, bending from the blow,

122 —Nor pierced.

"This said, his feeble hand a jav'lin threw,

Which, flutt'ring, seemed to loiter as it flew,

Just, and but barely, to the mark it held,

And faintly tinkled on the brazen shield."

Dryden's Virgil, ii. 742.

102 The Iliad of Homer

Eludes the death, and disappoints his foe:

But fierce Atrides waved his sword, and strook

Full on his casque: the crested helmet shook;

The brittle steel, unfaithful to his hand,

Broke short: the fragments glitter'd on the sand.

The raging warrior to the spacious skies

Raised his upbraiding voice and angry eyes:

"Then is it vain in Jove himself to trust?

And is it thus the gods assist the just?

When crimes provoke us, Heaven success denies;

The dart falls harmless, and the falchion flies."

Furious he said, and towards the Grecian crew

(Seized by the crest) the unhappy warrior drew;

Struggling he followed, while the embroider'd thong

That tied his helmet, dragg'd the chief along.

Then had his ruin crown'd Atrides' joy,

But Venus trembled for the prince of Troy:

Unseen she came, and burst the golden band;

And left an empty helmet in his hand.

The casque, enraged, amidst the Greeks he threw;

The Greeks with smiles the polish'd trophy view.

Then, as once more he lifts the deadly dart,

In thirst of vengeance, at his rival's heart;

[062] The queen of love her favour'd champion shrouds

(For gods can all things) in a veil of clouds.

Raised from the field the panting youth she led,

And gently laid him on the bridal bed,

With pleasing sweets his fainting sense renews,

And all the dome perfumes with heavenly dews.

Meantime the brightest of the female kind,

The matchless Helen, o'er the walls reclined;

To her, beset with Trojan beauties, came,

In borrow'd form, the laughter-loving dame.

(She seem'd an ancient maid, well-skill'd to cull

BOOK III. 103

The snowy fleece, and wind the twisted wool.)

The goddess softly shook her silken vest,

That shed perfumes, and whispering thus address'd:

VENUS, DISGUISED, INVITING HELEN TO THE

CHAMBER OF PARIS.

"Haste, happy nymph! for thee thy Paris calls,

Safe from the fight, in yonder lofty walls,

Fair as a god; with odours round him spread,

He lies, and waits thee on the well-known bed;

Not like a warrior parted from the foe,

But some gay dancer in the public show."

104 The Iliad of Homer

She spoke, and Helen's secret soul was moved;

She scorn'd the champion, but the man she loved.

Fair Venus' neck, her eyes that sparkled fire,

And breast, reveal'd the queen of soft desire.123

[063]

Struck with her presence, straight the lively red

Forsook her cheek; and trembling, thus she said:

"Then is it still thy pleasure to deceive?

And woman's frailty always to believe!

Say, to new nations must I cross the main,

Or carry wars to some soft Asian plain?

For whom must Helen break her second vow?

What other Paris is thy darling now?

Left to Atrides, (victor in the strife,)

An odious conquest and a captive wife,

Hence let me sail; and if thy Paris bear

My absence ill, let Venus ease his care.

A handmaid goddess at his side to wait,

Renounce the glories of thy heavenly state,

Be fix'd for ever to the Trojan shore,

His spouse, or slave; and mount the skies no more.

For me, to lawless love no longer led,

I scorn the coward, and detest his bed;

Else should I merit everlasting shame,

And keen reproach, from every Phrygian dame:

Ill suits it now the joys of love to know,

Too deep my anguish, and too wild my woe."

123 Reveal'd the queen.

"Thus having said, she turn'd and made appear

Her neck refulgent and dishevell'd hair,

Which, flowing from her shoulders, reach'd the ground,

And widely spread ambrosial scents around.

In length of train descends her sweeping gown;

And, by her graceful walk, the queen of love is known."

Dryden's Virgil, i. 556.

BOOK III. 105

VENUS PRESENTING HELEN TO PARIS.

Then thus incensed, the Paphian queen replies:

"Obey the power from whom thy glories rise:

Should Venus leave thee, every charm must fly,

Fade from thy cheek, and languish in thy eye.

Cease to provoke me, lest I make thee more

The world's aversion, than their love before;

Now the bright prize for which mankind engage,

Than, the sad victim, of the public rage."

106 The Iliad of Homer

[064]

At this, the fairest of her sex obey'd,

And veil'd her blushes in a silken shade;

Unseen, and silent, from the train she moves,

Led by the goddess of the Smiles and Loves.

Arrived, and enter'd at the palace gate,

The maids officious round their mistress wait;

Then, all dispersing, various tasks attend;

The queen and goddess to the prince ascend.

Full in her Paris' sight, the queen of love

Had placed the beauteous progeny of Jove;

Where, as he view'd her charms, she turn'd away

Her glowing eyes, and thus began to say:

"Is this the chief, who, lost to sense of shame,

Late fled the field, and yet survives his fame?

O hadst thou died beneath the righteous sword

Of that brave man whom once I call'd my lord!

The boaster Paris oft desired the day

With Sparta's king to meet in single fray:

Go now, once more thy rival's rage excite,

Provoke Atrides, and renew the fight:

Yet Helen bids thee stay, lest thou unskill'd

Shouldst fall an easy conquest on the field."

The prince replies: "Ah cease, divinely fair,

Nor add reproaches to the wounds I bear;

This day the foe prevail'd by Pallas' power:

We yet may vanquish in a happier hour:

There want not gods to favour us above;

But let the business of our life be love:

These softer moments let delights employ,

And kind embraces snatch the hasty joy.

Not thus I loved thee, when from Sparta's shore

BOOK III. 107

My forced, my willing heavenly prize I bore,

When first entranced in Cranae's isle I lay,124

Mix'd with thy soul, and all dissolved away!"

Thus having spoke, the enamour'd Phrygian boy

Rush'd to the bed, impatient for the joy.

Him Helen follow'd slow with bashful charms,

And clasp'd the blooming hero in her arms.

While these to love's delicious rapture yield,

The stern Atrides rages round the field:

So some fell lion whom the woods obey,

Roars through the desert, and demands his prey.

Paris he seeks, impatient to destroy,

But seeks in vain along the troops of Troy;

Even those had yielded to a foe so brave

The recreant warrior, hateful as the grave.

Then speaking thus, the king of kings arose,

"Ye Trojans, Dardans, all our generous foes! [065]

Hear and attest! from Heaven with conquest crown'd,

Our brother's arms the just success have found:

Be therefore now the Spartan wealth restor'd,

Let Argive Helen own her lawful lord;

The appointed fine let Ilion justly pay,

And age to age record this signal day."

He ceased; his army's loud applauses rise,

And the long shout runs echoing through the skies.

[066]

124 —Cranae's isle, i.e. Athens. See the "Schol." and Alberti's "Hesychius,"

vol. ii. p. 338. This name was derived from one of its early kings, Cranaus.

108 The Iliad of Homer

VENUS.

BOOK III. 109

Map, titled "Graeciae Antiquae".

[067]

BOOK IV.

ARGUMENT.

THE BREACH OF THE TRUCE, AND THE FIRST

BATTLE.

The gods deliberate in council concerning the Trojan war:

they agree upon the continuation of it, and Jupiter sends down

Minerva to break the truce. She persuades Pandarus to aim an

arrow at Menelaus, who is wounded, but cured by Machaon.

In the meantime some of the Trojan troops attack the Greeks.

Agamemnon is distinguished in all the parts of a good general;

he reviews the troops, and exhorts the leaders, some by praises

and others by reproof. Nestor is particularly celebrated for his

military discipline. The battle joins, and great numbers are slain

on both sides.

The same day continues through this as through the last book

(as it does also through the two following, and almost to the end

of the seventh book). The scene is wholly in the field before

Troy.

And now Olympus' shining gates unfold;

The gods, with Jove, assume their thrones of gold:

Immortal Hebe, fresh with bloom divine,

The golden goblet crowns with purple wine:

While the full bowls flow round, the powers employ

Their careful eyes on long-contended Troy.

112 The Iliad of Homer

When Jove, disposed to tempt Saturnia's spleen,

Thus waked the fury of his partial queen,

"Two powers divine the son of Atreus aid,

Imperial Juno, and the martial maid;125

But high in heaven they sit, and gaze from far,

The tame spectators of his deeds of war.

Not thus fair Venus helps her favour'd knight,

The queen of pleasures shares the toils of fight,

Each danger wards, and constant in her care,

Saves in the moment of the last despair.

Her act has rescued Paris' forfeit life,

Though great Atrides gain'd the glorious strife.

Then say, ye powers! what signal issue waits

[068] To crown this deed, and finish all the fates!

Shall Heaven by peace the bleeding kingdoms spare,

Or rouse the furies, and awake the war?

Yet, would the gods for human good provide,

Atrides soon might gain his beauteous bride,

Still Priam's walls in peaceful honours grow,

And through his gates the crowding nations flow."

Thus while he spoke, the queen of heaven, enraged,

And queen of war, in close consult engaged:

Apart they sit, their deep designs employ,

And meditate the future woes of Troy.

Though secret anger swell'd Minerva's breast,

The prudent goddess yet her wrath suppress'd;

But Juno, impotent of passion, broke

Her sullen silence, and with fury spoke:

BOOK IV. 113

THE COUNCIL OF THE GODS.

"Shall then, O tyrant of the ethereal reign!

My schemes, my labours, and my hopes be vain?

Have I, for this, shook Ilion with alarms,

Assembled nations, set two worlds in arms?

To spread the war, I flew from shore to shore;

The immortal coursers scarce the labour bore.

At length ripe vengeance o'er their heads impends,

But Jove himself the faithless race defends.

Loth as thou art to punish lawless lust,

Not all the gods are partial and unjust."

The sire whose thunder shakes the cloudy skies,

Sighs from his inmost soul, and thus replies:

"Oh lasting rancour! oh insatiate hate

To Phrygia's monarch, and the Phrygian state!

What high offence has fired the wife of Jove?

Can wretched mortals harm the powers above, [069]

125 —The martial maid. In the original, "Minerva Alalcomeneis," i.e. the

defender, so called from her temple at Alalcomene in Boeotia.

114 The Iliad of Homer

That Troy, and Troy's whole race thou wouldst confound,

And yon fair structures level with the ground!

Haste, leave the skies, fulfil thy stern desire,

Burst all her gates, and wrap her walls in fire!

Let Priam bleed! if yet you thirst for more,

Bleed all his sons, and Ilion float with gore:

To boundless vengeance the wide realm be given,

Till vast destruction glut the queen of heaven!

So let it be, and Jove his peace enjoy,126

When heaven no longer hears the name of Troy.

But should this arm prepare to wreak our hate

On thy loved realms, whose guilt demands their fate;

Presume not thou the lifted bolt to stay,

Remember Troy, and give the vengeance way.

For know, of all the numerous towns that rise

Beneath the rolling sun and starry skies,

Which gods have raised, or earth-born men enjoy,

None stands so dear to Jove as sacred Troy.

No mortals merit more distinguish'd grace

Than godlike Priam, or than Priam's race.

Still to our name their hecatombs expire,

And altars blaze with unextinguish'd fire."

At this the goddess rolled her radiant eyes,

Then on the Thunderer fix'd them, and replies:

"Three towns are Juno's on the Grecian plains,

More dear than all the extended earth contains,

Mycenae, Argos, and the Spartan wall;127

126 "Anything for a quiet life!"

127 —Argos. The worship of Juno at Argos was very celebrated in ancient

times, and she was regarded as the patron deity of that city. Apul. Met., vi. p.

453; Servius on Virg. Æn., i. 28.

BOOK IV. 115

These thou mayst raze, nor I forbid their fall:

'Tis not in me the vengeance to remove;

The crime's sufficient that they share my love.

Of power superior why should I complain?

Resent I may, but must resent in vain.

Yet some distinction Juno might require,

Sprung with thyself from one celestial sire,

A goddess born, to share the realms above,

And styled the consort of the thundering Jove;

Nor thou a wife and sister's right deny;128

Let both consent, and both by terms comply;

So shall the gods our joint decrees obey,

And heaven shall act as we direct the way.

See ready Pallas waits thy high commands

To raise in arms the Greek and Phrygian bands; [070]

Their sudden friendship by her arts may cease,

And the proud Trojans first infringe the peace."

The sire of men and monarch of the sky

The advice approved, and bade Minerva fly,

Dissolve the league, and all her arts employ

To make the breach the faithless act of Troy.

Fired with the charge, she headlong urged her flight,

And shot like lightning from Olympus' height.

As the red comet, from Saturnius sent

To fright the nations with a dire portent,

(A fatal sign to armies on the plain,

Or trembling sailors on the wintry main,)

128 —A wife and sister.

"But I, who walk in awful state above

The majesty of heav'n, the sister-wife of Jove."

Dryden's "Virgil," i. 70.

So Apuleius, l. c. speaks of her as "Jovis germana et conjux, and so Horace,

Od. iii. 3, 64, "conjuge me Jovis et sorore."

116 The Iliad of Homer

With sweeping glories glides along in air,

And shakes the sparkles from its blazing hair:129

Between both armies thus, in open sight

Shot the bright goddess in a trail of light,

With eyes erect the gazing hosts admire

The power descending, and the heavens on fire!

"The gods (they cried), the gods this signal sent,

And fate now labours with some vast event:

Jove seals the league, or bloodier scenes prepares;

Jove, the great arbiter of peace and wars."

They said, while Pallas through the Trojan throng,

(In shape a mortal,) pass'd disguised along.

Like bold Laodocus, her course she bent,

Who from Antenor traced his high descent.

Amidst the ranks Lycaon's son she found,

The warlike Pandarus, for strength renown'd;

Whose squadrons, led from black Æsepus' flood,130

With flaming shields in martial circle stood.

To him the goddess: "Phrygian! canst thou hear

A well-timed counsel with a willing ear?

What praise were thine, couldst thou direct thy dart,

Amidst his triumph, to the Spartan's heart?

What gifts from Troy, from Paris wouldst thou gain,

Thy country's foe, the Grecian glory slain?

129

"Thither came Uriel, gleaming through the even

On a sunbeam, swift as a shooting star

In autumn thwarts the night, when vapours fired

Impress the air, and shows the mariner

From what point of his compass to beware

Impetuous winds."

—"Paradise Lost," iv. 555.

130 —Æsepus' flood. A river of Mysia, rising from Mount Cotyius, in the

southern part of the chain of Ida.

BOOK IV. 117

Then seize the occasion, dare the mighty deed,

Aim at his breast, and may that aim succeed!

But first, to speed the shaft, address thy vow

To Lycian Phoebus with the silver bow,

And swear the firstlings of thy flock to pay,

On Zelia's altars, to the god of day."131

He heard, and madly at the motion pleased, [071]

His polish'd bow with hasty rashness seized.

'Twas form'd of horn, and smooth'd with artful toil:

A mountain goat resign'd the shining spoil.

Who pierced long since beneath his arrows bled;

The stately quarry on the cliffs lay dead,

And sixteen palms his brow's large honours spread:

The workmen join'd, and shaped the bended horns,

And beaten gold each taper point adorns.

This, by the Greeks unseen, the warrior bends,

Screen'd by the shields of his surrounding friends:

There meditates the mark; and couching low,

Fits the sharp arrow to the well-strung bow.

One from a hundred feather'd deaths he chose,

Fated to wound, and cause of future woes;

Then offers vows with hecatombs to crown

Apollo's altars in his native town.

Now with full force the yielding horn he bends,

Drawn to an arch, and joins the doubling ends;

Close to his breast he strains the nerve below,

Till the barb'd points approach the circling bow;

The impatient weapon whizzes on the wing;

Sounds the tough horn, and twangs the quivering string.

131 —Zelia, a town of Troas, at the foot of Ida.

118 The Iliad of Homer

But thee, Atrides! in that dangerous hour

The gods forget not, nor thy guardian power,

Pallas assists, and (weakened in its force)

Diverts the weapon from its destined course:

So from her babe, when slumber seals his eye,

The watchful mother wafts the envenom'd fly.

Just where his belt with golden buckles join'd,

Where linen folds the double corslet lined,

She turn'd the shaft, which, hissing from above,

Pass'd the broad belt, and through the corslet drove;

The folds it pierced, the plaited linen tore,

And razed the skin, and drew the purple gore.

As when some stately trappings are decreed

To grace a monarch on his bounding steed,

A nymph in Caria or Maeonia bred,

Stains the pure ivory with a lively red;

With equal lustre various colours vie,

The shining whiteness, and the Tyrian dye:

So great Atrides! show'd thy sacred blood,

As down thy snowy thigh distill'd the streaming flood.

With horror seized, the king of men descried

The shaft infix'd, and saw the gushing tide:

Nor less the Spartan fear'd, before he found

The shining barb appear above the wound,

Then, with a sigh, that heaved his manly breast,

The royal brother thus his grief express'd,

And grasp'd his hand; while all the Greeks around

With answering sighs return'd the plaintive sound.

[072]

"Oh, dear as life! did I for this agree

The solemn truce, a fatal truce to thee!

Wert thou exposed to all the hostile train,

To fight for Greece, and conquer, to be slain!

The race of Trojans in thy ruin join,

BOOK IV. 119

And faith is scorn'd by all the perjured line.

Not thus our vows, confirm'd with wine and gore,

Those hands we plighted, and those oaths we swore,

Shall all be vain: when Heaven's revenge is slow,

Jove but prepares to strike the fiercer blow.

The day shall come, that great avenging day,

When Troy's proud glories in the dust shall lay,

When Priam's powers and Priam's self shall fall,

And one prodigious ruin swallow all.

I see the god, already, from the pole

Bare his red arm, and bid the thunder roll;

I see the Eternal all his fury shed,

And shake his aegis o'er their guilty head.

Such mighty woes on perjured princes wait;

But thou, alas! deserv'st a happier fate.

Still must I mourn the period of thy days,

And only mourn, without my share of praise?

Deprived of thee, the heartless Greeks no more

Shall dream of conquests on the hostile shore;

Troy seized of Helen, and our glory lost,

Thy bones shall moulder on a foreign coast;

While some proud Trojan thus insulting cries,

(And spurns the dust where Menelaus lies,)

'Such are the trophies Greece from Ilion brings,

And such the conquest of her king of kings!

Lo his proud vessels scatter'd o'er the main,

And unrevenged, his mighty brother slain.'

Oh! ere that dire disgrace shall blast my fame,

O'erwhelm me, earth! and hide a monarch's shame."

He said: a leader's and a brother's fears

Possess his soul, which thus the Spartan cheers:

"Let not thy words the warmth of Greece abate;

The feeble dart is guiltless of my fate:

120 The Iliad of Homer

Stiff with the rich embroider'd work around,

My varied belt repell'd the flying wound."

To whom the king: "My brother and my friend,

Thus, always thus, may Heaven thy life defend!

Now seek some skilful hand, whose powerful art

May stanch the effusion, and extract the dart.

Herald, be swift, and bid Machaon bring

His speedy succour to the Spartan king;

Pierced with a winged shaft (the deed of Troy),

The Grecian's sorrow, and the Dardan's joy."

With hasty zeal the swift Talthybius flies;

[073] Through the thick files he darts his searching eyes,

And finds Machaon, where sublime he stands132

In arms incircled with his native bands.

Then thus: "Machaon, to the king repair,

His wounded brother claims thy timely care;

Pierced by some Lycian or Dardanian bow,

A grief to us, a triumph to the foe."

132 —Podaleirius and Machaon are the leeches of the Grecian army, highly

prized and consulted by all the wounded chiefs. Their medical renown was

further prolonged in the subsequent poem of Arktinus, the Iliou Persis, wherein

the one was represented as unrivalled in surgical operations, the other as

sagacious in detecting and appreciating morbid symptoms. It was Podaleirius

who first noticed the glaring eyes and disturbed deportment which preceded

the suicide of Ajax.

"Galen appears uncertain whether Asklepius (as well as Dionysus) was

originally a god, or whether he was first a man and then became afterwards

a god; but Apollodorus professed to fix the exact date of his apotheosis.

Throughout all the historical ages the descendants of Asklepius were numerous

and widely diffused. The many families or gentes, called Asklepiads, who

devoted themselves to the study and practice of medicine, and who principally

dwelt near the temples of Asklepius, whither sick and suffering men came to

obtain relief—all recognized the god not merely as the object of their common

worship, but also as their actual progenitor."—Grote vol. i. p. 248.

BOOK IV. 121

The heavy tidings grieved the godlike man

Swift to his succour through the ranks he ran.

The dauntless king yet standing firm he found,

And all the chiefs in deep concern around.

Where to the steely point the reed was join'd,

The shaft he drew, but left the head behind.

Straight the broad belt with gay embroidery graced,

He loosed; the corslet from his breast unbraced;

Then suck'd the blood, and sovereign balm infused,133

Which Chiron gave, and Æsculapius used.

While round the prince the Greeks employ their care,

The Trojans rush tumultuous to the war;

Once more they glitter in refulgent arms,

Once more the fields are fill'd with dire alarms.

Nor had you seen the king of men appear

Confused, unactive, or surprised with fear;

But fond of glory, with severe delight,

His beating bosom claim'd the rising fight.

No longer with his warlike steeds he stay'd,

Or press'd the car with polish'd brass inlaid

But left Eurymedon the reins to guide;

The fiery coursers snorted at his side.

On foot through all the martial ranks he moves

And these encourages, and those reproves.

"Brave men!" he cries, (to such who boldly dare

133

"The plant she bruises with a stone, and stands

Tempering the juice between her ivory hands

This o'er her breast she sheds with sovereign art

And bathes with gentle touch the wounded part

The wound such virtue from the juice derives,

At once the blood is stanch'd, the youth revives."

"Orlando Furioso," book 1.

122 The Iliad of Homer

Urge their swift steeds to face the coming war),

"Your ancient valour on the foes approve;

[074] Jove is with Greece, and let us trust in Jove.

'Tis not for us, but guilty Troy, to dread,

Whose crimes sit heavy on her perjured head;

Her sons and matrons Greece shall lead in chains,

And her dead warriors strew the mournful plains."

Thus with new ardour he the brave inspires;

Or thus the fearful with reproaches fires:

"Shame to your country, scandal of your kind;

Born to the fate ye well deserve to find!

Why stand ye gazing round the dreadful plain,

Prepared for flight, but doom'd to fly in vain?

Confused and panting thus, the hunted deer

Falls as he flies, a victim to his fear.

Still must ye wait the foes, and still retire,

Till yon tall vessels blaze with Trojan fire?

Or trust ye, Jove a valiant foe shall chase,

To save a trembling, heartless, dastard race?"

This said, he stalk'd with ample strides along,

To Crete's brave monarch and his martial throng;

High at their head he saw the chief appear,

And bold Meriones excite the rear.

At this the king his generous joy express'd,

And clasp'd the warrior to his armed breast.

"Divine Idomeneus! what thanks we owe

To worth like thine! what praise shall we bestow?

To thee the foremost honours are decreed,

First in the fight and every graceful deed.

For this, in banquets, when the generous bowls

Restore our blood, and raise the warriors' souls,

Though all the rest with stated rules we bound,

BOOK IV. 123

Unmix'd, unmeasured, are thy goblets crown'd.

Be still thyself, in arms a mighty name;

Maintain thy honours, and enlarge thy fame."

To whom the Cretan thus his speech address'd:

"Secure of me, O king! exhort the rest.

Fix'd to thy side, in every toil I share,

Thy firm associate in the day of war.

But let the signal be this moment given;

To mix in fight is all I ask of Heaven.

The field shall prove how perjuries succeed,

And chains or death avenge the impious deed."

Charm'd with this heat, the king his course pursues,

And next the troops of either Ajax views:

In one firm orb the bands were ranged around,

A cloud of heroes blacken'd all the ground.

Thus from the lofty promontory's brow

A swain surveys the gathering storm below;

Slow from the main the heavy vapours rise,

Spread in dim streams, and sail along the skies,

Till black as night the swelling tempest shows,

The cloud condensing as the west-wind blows: [075]

He dreads the impending storm, and drives his flock

To the close covert of an arching rock.

Such, and so thick, the embattled squadrons stood,

With spears erect, a moving iron wood:

A shady light was shot from glimmering shields,

And their brown arms obscured the dusky fields.

124 The Iliad of Homer

"O heroes! worthy such a dauntless train,

Whose godlike virtue we but urge in vain,

(Exclaim'd the king), who raise your eager bands

With great examples, more than loud commands.

Ah! would the gods but breathe in all the rest

Such souls as burn in your exalted breast,

Soon should our arms with just success be crown'd,

And Troy's proud walls lie smoking on the ground."

Then to the next the general bends his course;

(His heart exults, and glories in his force);

There reverend Nestor ranks his Pylian bands,

And with inspiring eloquence commands;

With strictest order sets his train in arms,

The chiefs advises, and the soldiers warms.

Alastor, Chromius, Haemon, round him wait,

Bias the good, and Pelagon the great.

The horse and chariots to the front assign'd,

The foot (the strength of war) he ranged behind;

The middle space suspected troops supply,

Inclosed by both, nor left the power to fly;

He gives command to "curb the fiery steed,

Nor cause confusion, nor the ranks exceed:

Before the rest let none too rashly ride;

No strength nor skill, but just in time, be tried:

The charge once made, no warrior turn the rein,

But fight, or fall; a firm embodied train.

He whom the fortune of the field shall cast

From forth his chariot, mount the next in haste;

Nor seek unpractised to direct the car,

Content with javelins to provoke the war.

Our great forefathers held this prudent course,

Thus ruled their ardour, thus preserved their force;

By laws like these immortal conquests made,

BOOK IV. 125

And earth's proud tyrants low in ashes laid."

So spoke the master of the martial art,

And touch'd with transport great Atrides' heart.

"Oh! hadst thou strength to match thy brave desires,

And nerves to second what thy soul inspires!

But wasting years, that wither human race,

Exhaust thy spirits, and thy arms unbrace.

What once thou wert, oh ever mightst thou be!

And age the lot of any chief but thee."

Thus to the experienced prince Atrides cried;

He shook his hoary locks, and thus replied: [076]

"Well might I wish, could mortal wish renew134

That strength which once in boiling youth I knew;

Such as I was, when Ereuthalion, slain

Beneath this arm, fell prostrate on the plain.

But heaven its gifts not all at once bestows,

These years with wisdom crowns, with action those:

The field of combat fits the young and bold,

The solemn council best becomes the old:

To you the glorious conflict I resign,

Let sage advice, the palm of age, be mine."

134 —Well might I wish.

"Would heav'n (said he) my strength and youth recall,

Such as I was beneath Praeneste's wall—

Then when I made the foremost foes retire,

And set whole heaps of conquer'd shields on fire;

When Herilus in single fight I slew,

Whom with three lives Feronia did endue."

Dryden's Virgil, viii. 742.

126 The Iliad of Homer

He said. With joy the monarch march'd before,

And found Menestheus on the dusty shore,

With whom the firm Athenian phalanx stands;

And next Ulysses, with his subject bands.

Remote their forces lay, nor knew so far

The peace infringed, nor heard the sounds of war;

The tumult late begun, they stood intent

To watch the motion, dubious of the event.

The king, who saw their squadrons yet unmoved,

With hasty ardour thus the chiefs reproved:

"Can Peleus' son forget a warrior's part.

And fears Ulysses, skill'd in every art?

Why stand you distant, and the rest expect

To mix in combat which yourselves neglect?

From you 'twas hoped among the first to dare

The shock of armies, and commence the war;

For this your names are call'd before the rest,

To share the pleasures of the genial feast:

And can you, chiefs! without a blush survey

Whole troops before you labouring in the fray?

Say, is it thus those honours you requite?

The first in banquets, but the last in fight."

Ulysses heard: the hero's warmth o'erspread

His cheek with blushes: and severe, he said:

"Take back the unjust reproach! Behold we stand

Sheathed in bright arms, and but expect command.

If glorious deeds afford thy soul delight,

Behold me plunging in the thickest fight.

Then give thy warrior-chief a warrior's due,

Who dares to act whate'er thou dar'st to view."

Struck with his generous wrath, the king replies:

BOOK IV. 127

"O great in action, and in council wise!

With ours, thy care and ardour are the same,

Nor need I to commend, nor aught to blame.

Sage as thou art, and learn'd in human kind,

Forgive the transport of a martial mind.

Haste to the fight, secure of just amends;

The gods that make, shall keep the worthy, friends."

He said, and pass'd where great Tydides lay,

His steeds and chariots wedged in firm array;

(The warlike Sthenelus attends his side;)135

To whom with stern reproach the monarch cried:

"O son of Tydeus! (he, whose strength could tame

The bounding steed, in arms a mighty name)

Canst thou, remote, the mingling hosts descry,

With hands unactive, and a careless eye?

Not thus thy sire the fierce encounter fear'd;

Still first in front the matchless prince appear'd:

What glorious toils, what wonders they recite,

Who view'd him labouring through the ranks of fight?

I saw him once, when gathering martial powers,

A peaceful guest, he sought Mycenae's towers;

Armies he ask'd, and armies had been given,

Not we denied, but Jove forbade from heaven;

While dreadful comets glaring from afar,

Forewarn'd the horrors of the Theban war.136

Next, sent by Greece from where Asopus flows,

A fearless envoy, he approach'd the foes;

Thebes' hostile walls unguarded and alone,

135 —Sthenelus, a son of Capaneus, one of the Epigoni. He was one of the

suitors of Helen, and is said to have been one of those who entered Troy inside

the wooden horse.

136 —Forwarn'd the horrors. The same portent has already been mentioned.

To this day, modern nations are not wholly free from this superstition.

128 The Iliad of Homer

Dauntless he enters, and demands the throne.

The tyrant feasting with his chiefs he found,

And dared to combat all those chiefs around:

Dared, and subdued before their haughty lord;

For Pallas strung his arm and edged his sword.

Stung with the shame, within the winding way,

To bar his passage fifty warriors lay;

Two heroes led the secret squadron on,

Mason the fierce, and hardy Lycophon;

Those fifty slaughter'd in the gloomy vale.

He spared but one to bear the dreadful tale,

Such Tydeus was, and such his martial fire;

Gods! how the son degenerates from the sire!"

No words the godlike Diomed return'd,

But heard respectful, and in secret burn'd:

Not so fierce Capaneus' undaunted son;

Stern as his sire, the boaster thus begun:

"What needs, O monarch! this invidious praise,

Ourselves to lessen, while our sire you raise?

[078] Dare to be just, Atrides! and confess

Our value equal, though our fury less.

With fewer troops we storm'd the Theban wall,

And happier saw the sevenfold city fall,137

In impious acts the guilty father died;

The sons subdued, for Heaven was on their side.

Far more than heirs of all our parents' fame,

Our glories darken their diminish'd name."

137 —Sevenfold city, Boeotian Thebes, which had seven gates.

BOOK IV. 129

To him Tydides thus: "My friend, forbear;

Suppress thy passion, and the king revere:

His high concern may well excuse this rage,

Whose cause we follow, and whose war we wage:

His the first praise, were Ilion's towers o'erthrown,

And, if we fail, the chief disgrace his own.

Let him the Greeks to hardy toils excite,

'Tis ours to labour in the glorious fight."

He spoke, and ardent, on the trembling ground

Sprung from his car: his ringing arms resound.

Dire was the clang, and dreadful from afar,

Of arm'd Tydides rushing to the war.

As when the winds, ascending by degrees,138

First move the whitening surface of the seas,

The billows float in order to the shore,

The wave behind rolls on the wave before;

Till, with the growing storm, the deeps arise,

Foam o'er the rocks, and thunder to the skies.

So to the fight the thick battalions throng,

Shields urged on shields, and men drove men along

Sedate and silent move the numerous bands;

No sound, no whisper, but the chief's commands,

Those only heard; with awe the rest obey,

As if some god had snatch'd their voice away.

Not so the Trojans; from their host ascends

A general shout that all the region rends.

138 —As when the winds.

"Thus, when a black-brow'd gust begins to rise,

White foam at first on the curl'd ocean fries;

Then roars the main, the billows mount the skies,

Till, by the fury of the storm full blown,

The muddy billow o'er the clouds is thrown."

Dryden's Virgil, vii. 736.

130 The Iliad of Homer

As when the fleecy flocks unnumber'd stand

In wealthy folds, and wait the milker's hand,

The hollow vales incessant bleating fills,

The lambs reply from all the neighbouring hills:

Such clamours rose from various nations round,

Mix'd was the murmur, and confused the sound.

Each host now joins, and each a god inspires,

These Mars incites, and those Minerva fires,

Pale flight around, and dreadful terror reign;

[079] And discord raging bathes the purple plain;

Discord! dire sister of the slaughtering power,

Small at her birth, but rising every hour,

While scarce the skies her horrid head can bound,

She stalks on earth, and shakes the world around;139

The nations bleed, where'er her steps she turns,

The groan still deepens, and the combat burns.

Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet closed,

To armour armour, lance to lance opposed,

Host against host with shadowy squadrons drew,

The sounding darts in iron tempests flew,

Victors and vanquish'd join'd promiscuous cries,

And shrilling shouts and dying groans arise;

With streaming blood the slippery fields are dyed,

And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide.

139

"Stood

Like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved;

His stature reach'd the sky."

—"Paradise Lost," iv. 986.

BOOK IV. 131

As torrents roll, increased by numerous rills,

With rage impetuous, down their echoing hills

Rush to the vales, and pour'd along the plain.

Roar through a thousand channels to the main:

The distant shepherd trembling hears the sound;

So mix both hosts, and so their cries rebound.

The bold Antilochus the slaughter led,

The first who struck a valiant Trojan dead:

At great Echepolus the lance arrives,

Razed his high crest, and through his helmet drives;

Warm'd in the brain the brazen weapon lies,

And shades eternal settle o'er his eyes.

So sinks a tower, that long assaults had stood

Of force and fire, its walls besmear'd with blood.

Him, the bold leader of the Abantian throng,140

Seized to despoil, and dragg'd the corpse along:

But while he strove to tug the inserted dart,

Agenor's javelin reach'd the hero's heart.

His flank, unguarded by his ample shield,

Admits the lance: he falls, and spurns the field;

The nerves, unbraced, support his limbs no more;

The soul comes floating in a tide of gore.

Trojans and Greeks now gather round the slain;

The war renews, the warriors bleed again:

As o'er their prey rapacious wolves engage,

Man dies on man, and all is blood and rage.

In blooming youth fair Simoisius fell,

Sent by great Ajax to the shades of hell;

Fair Simoisius, whom his mother bore

Amid the flocks on silver Simois' shore:

The nymph descending from the hills of Ide,

To seek her parents on his flowery side, [080]

140 The Abantes seem to have been of Thracian origin.

132 The Iliad of Homer

Brought forth the babe, their common care and joy,

And thence from Simois named the lovely boy.

Short was his date! by dreadful Ajax slain,

He falls, and renders all their cares in vain!

So falls a poplar, that in watery ground

Raised high the head, with stately branches crown'd,

(Fell'd by some artist with his shining steel,

To shape the circle of the bending wheel,)

Cut down it lies, tall, smooth, and largely spread,

With all its beauteous honours on its head

There, left a subject to the wind and rain,

And scorch'd by suns, it withers on the plain

Thus pierced by Ajax, Simoisius lies

Stretch'd on the shore, and thus neglected dies.

At Ajax, Antiphus his javelin threw;

The pointed lance with erring fury flew,

And Leucus, loved by wise Ulysses, slew.

He drops the corpse of Simoisius slain,

And sinks a breathless carcase on the plain.

This saw Ulysses, and with grief enraged,

Strode where the foremost of the foes engaged;

Arm'd with his spear, he meditates the wound,

In act to throw; but cautious look'd around,

Struck at his sight the Trojans backward drew,

And trembling heard the javelin as it flew.

A chief stood nigh, who from Abydos came,

Old Priam's son, Democoon was his name.

The weapon entered close above his ear,

Cold through his temples glides the whizzing spear;141

With piercing shrieks the youth resigns his breath,

His eye-balls darken with the shades of death;

141 I may, once for all, remark that Homer is most anatomically correct as to

the parts of the body in which a wound would be immediately mortal.

BOOK IV. 133

Ponderous he falls; his clanging arms resound,

And his broad buckler rings against the ground.

Seized with affright the boldest foes appear;

E'en godlike Hector seems himself to fear;

Slow he gave way, the rest tumultuous fled;

The Greeks with shouts press on, and spoil the dead:

But Phoebus now from Ilion's towering height

Shines forth reveal'd, and animates the fight.

"Trojans, be bold, and force with force oppose;

Your foaming steeds urge headlong on the foes!

Nor are their bodies rocks, nor ribb'd with steel;

Your weapons enter, and your strokes they feel.

Have ye forgot what seem'd your dread before?

The great, the fierce Achilles fights no more."

Apollo thus from Ilion's lofty towers,

Array'd in terrors, roused the Trojan powers:

While war's fierce goddess fires the Grecian foe, [081]

And shouts and thunders in the fields below.

Then great Diores fell, by doom divine,

In vain his valour and illustrious line.

A broken rock the force of Pyrus threw,

(Who from cold Ænus led the Thracian crew,)142

Full on his ankle dropp'd the ponderous stone,

Burst the strong nerves, and crash'd the solid bone.

Supine he tumbles on the crimson sands,

Before his helpless friends, and native bands,

And spreads for aid his unavailing hands.

The foe rush'd furious as he pants for breath,

And through his navel drove the pointed death:

His gushing entrails smoked upon the ground,

And the warm life came issuing from the wound.

142 —Ænus, a fountain almost proverbial for its coldness.

134 The Iliad of Homer

His lance bold Thoas at the conqueror sent,

Deep in his breast above the pap it went,

Amid the lungs was fix'd the winged wood,

And quivering in his heaving bosom stood:

Till from the dying chief, approaching near,

The Ætolian warrior tugg'd his weighty spear:

Then sudden waved his flaming falchion round,

And gash'd his belly with a ghastly wound;

The corpse now breathless on the bloody plain,

To spoil his arms the victor strove in vain;

The Thracian bands against the victor press'd,

A grove of lances glitter'd at his breast.

Stern Thoas, glaring with revengeful eyes,

In sullen fury slowly quits the prize.

Thus fell two heroes; one the pride of Thrace,

And one the leader of the Epeian race;

Death's sable shade at once o'ercast their eyes,

In dust the vanquish'd and the victor lies.

With copious slaughter all the fields are red,

And heap'd with growing mountains of the dead.

Had some brave chief this martial scene beheld,

By Pallas guarded through the dreadful field;

Might darts be bid to turn their points away,

And swords around him innocently play;

The war's whole art with wonder had he seen,

And counted heroes where he counted men.

So fought each host, with thirst of glory fired,

And crowds on crowds triumphantly expired.

[082]

BOOK IV. 135

Map of the Plain of Troy.


End file.
